


Sleeping Next to You

by revampired



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (hopefully), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catharsis, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Follow up fic to That Doujinshi, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Mutilation, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Protective Katsuki Yuuri, Vitya Gets Better, so many cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 18:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revampired/pseuds/revampired
Summary: I was right, Victor thinks smugly as sleep covers him like a blanket, I told him he couldn't keep me away from you, Yuuri.Or: In the aftermath of Victor's horrific kidnapping, Yuuri and Victor heal together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tl;dr I read the doujinshi that everyone's been talking/very upset about and, unsurprisingly, it made me quite sad, so I decided to write a follow up to it detailing Victor's recovery process and the many hugs and kisses he's going to get from one Katsuki Yuuri. I don't think you really need to have read it to read this fic, but it might help you realize why I included some really out there injuries like, for example, the amputation thing. Yeah, that happens.
> 
> Longer Version:
> 
> I'd be happy if someone else read this and it made them happy, but I'm mostly writing it for my own peace of mind. :) Also, I'm incapable of writing short fic, so you get a multichapter thingy that I'll hopefully update either next weekend or the weekend after. I wrote 6700 words in two days y'all.
> 
> One IMPORTANT thing to note is that, for me, I need my "fix-it" fic to follow the original upsetting thing as much as possible, then go back and fix those upsetting things as opposed to just waving them away. That means that everything that happened in the doujinshi happened before the context of this fic, and will probably be at least mentioned more than once. I just wanted to warn everyone because the beginning of the fic might be pretty rough for some people as I refer to Victor's injuries etc. Also, Yuuri and Victor spend most of the first chapter crying. It'll get better, though, I promise. I'm planning to write some prime Soft Vitya content. 
> 
> The only thing I changed was, so, the ending of the doujin is pretty open, but I interpreted it as the author implying Victor got killed. So, basically, I wanted to cover all my bases and say "ok so the kidnapper TRIED to kill him but failed" which is why included some additional injuries that aren't in the thing. That's not for added angst value just, once again, trying to have this satisfyingly wrap up as much of what happened as possible. 
> 
> Ok enough rambling

The damage is… Unimaginable. 

Yuuri has lain awake in bed countless nights these past three years, mind torturing him with images of his Vitya, bleeding and broken and begging for help, with dreams where he grasps his darling’s hand just before the moment he wakes, alone, in their shared bedroom where wedding photos decorate the walls-

What the officers on the case said was: after three days, the chances of finding a missing person fall to almost nothing. After three years, them showing up alive is a near miracle. And Yuuri thinks, this must be a miracle, except…

Except. 

Yuuri barely listens to the officer on the phone -  _ stabilized at the local hospital and airlifted to a facility in Tokyo for surgery -  _ as he frantically hails the first cab he sees, all but throwing a pair of horrified tourists to the pavement on his way in. 

Somehow, Yakov has managed to get to the hospital first, and the color of his cheeks is as gray as his hair. They’ve grown closer since Victor’s disappearance, a closeness bonded by grief and the slow degradation of Yakov’s confident, “Oh, you know his whims. I’m sure he’ll be back to you soon.”

Also, with Victor gone, someone needed to account for Yuuri’s coaching. 

“Yuuri,” Yakov growls. Instead of moving to the side, as Yuuri expects him to, he steps in Yuuri’s path with lips pressed into a thin line. 

“What are you-” Yuuri spits, trying to side-step Yakov’s girth.

“Please, listen-”

“Out of my  _ way _ , Yakov-”

“ _ Yuuri! _ ” 

Yuuri stops short, breath cutting off like someone sliced it with a knife. Yakov has yelled himself hoarse dozens of times at Yuri and Victor, but he has never once yelled at Yuuri. Not even when he officially became Yuuri’s coach and Yuuri couldn’t get out of bed for days, weighed down in agony over Victor. 

“I saw him,” Yakov whispers, voice thick with pain. 

“Yes,” Yuuri whispers back, impatience coating every movement, every glance. 

“Yuuri, it’s bad. He just got out of surgery, but - he’s been begging to see you ever since they brought him in, he can barely speak but I can tell-”

“So why are you stopping me?” Yuuri hisses, aware that every eye in the hospital is on them.

Yakov takes a deep, shuddering breath, and closes his eyes. “Yuuri… He doesn’t have legs.”

Yuuri blinks, completely not comprehending. He wonders if he’s lost his grasp on English in his panic. 

“What?” he says. 

Yakov opens his eyes again, and Yuuri notices that they’re a little red. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Yakov cry. 

“Whoever did this to him, they cut off his legs,” Yakov says, voice barely wavering. “And there are… Other things. He has about a dozen stitches in his face. I needed to tell you because, if you don’t think you can handle seeing him-”

Yuuri feels white hot anger crack like lightning inside of him. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I-”

“He’s been begging for you since the moment they found him naked in a public restroom, according to the police, and I don’t want to see how he’ll react if you can’t stand the sight of him!”

Everything goes very quiet all at once. 

“Please,” Yakov pleads, “I just… He’s hurt so badly, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri can barely calm the frantic beating of his heart, the trembling of his hands, and he says, “I’m going to see my husband, Yakov. Fuck you for saying that to me.” 

He pushes past Yakov and swallows down thick, choking tears on his way to Victor’s hospital room. 

At first, Yuuri thinks that Victor is asleep. That’s the only thing that stops him from leaping onto the hospital bed and smothering him with dozens and dozens of careful kisses, making up for lost time. Then, Victor’s face, purple and swollen with bruises, stitches, cuts - his face turns, slowly, towards him, and he mouths something that can only be Yuuri’s name. 

Yuuri sobs, rushing forward and gripping Victor’s trembling, outstretched arm, kissing every red-scabbed knuckle, his bruised wrist, up the length of his forearm. He pauses, briefly, at the pinprick dark spots clustered at the crook of his elbow - track marks, Yuuri realizes with horror - before cupping Victor’s face, gentle as summer rain, and pressing their lips together. 

He tastes medicinal. Victor sobs against Yuuri’s mouth, hands gripping the back of the suit Yuuri had been wearing for some press conference that seems amazingly unimportant, now, trying to hold him closer. His nose is in a splint, and Yuuri hears his sharp intake of breath as Victor bumps it against Yuuri’s, but when Yuuri tries to pull away his grip is firm. Weaker than it had been three years ago, but unyielding in its desperation.

“I’m here, baby,” Yuuri whispers in Russian, quick between kisses, “I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m right here.” 

He barely hears the nurse come in, but he does hear her gasp and say, “Katsuki-san, please - it’s dangerous to kiss him!”

Yuuri pulls back, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “Why?” He whispers, pressing his lips back to Victor’s dark-splotched fingers. The track marks are so dark against his pale, pale skin, almost ghostly white in the stark hospital lights. It’s discolored all around them, both bruises and a strange ruddy tinge. Yuuri can’t think about why, about the extent to the damage.

The nurse swallows, audibly, and begins, “There could be diseases…” 

The pieces slowly work their way into a cohesive picture, but Yuuri’s brain stubbornly refuses to come to the correct conclusion. His head feels blank, fuzzy, and he’s swimming in the blue slivers of Victor’s watery eyes that peek out from under his eyelids. 

As he stands there, drinking in Victor’s face and Victor’s low, scratching whispers that Yuuri knows are his name, he notices more. Thick bandages wrap all around his neck, stitches peek out from underneath the hospital gown. His wrist, the one that isn’t frantically gripping Yuuri’s hand because of an IV drip, is in a cast. They’ve covered him with blankets to preserve his modesty, but the slope where his legs end far sooner than they should is clear even underneath the thick cotton.

Yuuri’s eyes fill with tears and he pulls Victor to him again. 

A police officer wants to talk to him. Yuuri can barely speak beyond soothing words to Victor, so he lets Yakov take charge of the criminal case, knowing in his heart that it’s unfair of him when Yakov barely speaks a word of Japanese but too strung out on adrenaline to care. 

Victor barely speaks. He croaks for water a few times, murmurs Yuuri’s name once or twice, like he’s remembering how to say it. His arms work, but he seems content to let Yuuri lift the little plastic cup to his lips, thumb brushing away a stray trickle from the corner of his mouth. 

“Look,” Yuuri smiles through his tears, “Look - I took this picture of Makka just a few months ago. She’s such an old girl, but she made sure she stuck around until you came back. She’s - she’s staying with Yurio right now. He’s really warmed up to her, you know?”

Victor sniffles, and fear spikes through Yuuri’s gut as he reaches for a tissue by the bedside table. 

“I can stop,” Yuuri says, clicking his phone shut. “We can talk about something else. Something - it’s almost spring, and St. Petersburg is going to start blooming very soon, and-”

Victor lets out a low whine and shakes his head, nodding towards the phone beseechingly. Yuuri’s heart aches, but he forces a wobbly smile, and settles in closer beside Victor. He can hear the slow, rattling breaths, feel the soft puff of air against his neck, so blessedly real. 

“We dressed her up for last Halloween, look, put a little witch’s hat on her. Oh, and here she is, she knocked Yurio’s cake to the floor when we celebrated his twenty-second birthday-” Victor stiffens a little at Yuri’s age, and he shudders, so Yuuri rushes on, “She’s going to be so happy to see you. I’d fill her food bowl, and she’d wait to start eating b-because she remembered you’d a-always sneak in a little bit extra if she made those eyes at you-” 

Yuuri covers his mouth as a sob rips through him, and he buries his face in Victor’s chest to choke back his tears. He can’t lose it, not now. Not when Victor needs him. The top of his head is damp, and a rumbling shudder echoes through Victor’s chest. Yuuri grits his teeth and looks up, meeting Victor’s gaze with a watery, trembling smile. 

“I’m going to take you home,” Yuuri whispers, dabbing at Victor’s nose with a tissue to clean it. “It’s over now, okay baby? You’re with me. You’re safe.”

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers, hoarse and nearly unintelligible, and his lips quirk up in what might be a smile.

* * *

 

Eventually, they make Yuuri leave.  _ Visiting hours are over, _ they say,  _ we need to change Victor’s bandages _ , they say.

Yuuri gnashes his teeth and argues in a way the doctors are clearly not used to. He begs, wheedles them to make an exception, just this once. 

In the end, it’s Yakov who escorts Yuuri out. Once he says his goodbyes and gives Victor some words of comfort, he lifts Yuuri clean up and tosses him over his shoulder while Yuuri curses at him in Russian, Japanese, and English. 

Under other circumstances, Yuuri might laugh at how he’s being treated like a petulant Yuri, but as Yakov plops him down in a chair, he’s just furious. Anger, devastation mingle with the euphoric glee at finally finding his Vitya again. 

“Why can’t he talk?” Yuuri hears himself shout, not at anyone in particular, “Why couldn’t he speak to me?”

The nurses are too nervous to answer, so his anger echoes uncomfortably against the stark-white walls. In an instant, his fury crashes all around him, leaving only bare, naked grief, and he lets out a sob and sinks to his knees, right in the middle of the hallway.

Yakov’s joints  _ pop _ as he kneels too, and he wraps his arms around Yuuri’s trembling shoulders, muffling Yuuri’s wails with his shoulder. Yuuri cries himself hoarse in the middle of the hospital, just outside of earshot of Victor’s room. Maybe, he thinks, maybe if they see him like this they’ll let him back in. 

They don’t, and when he’s done crying the world falls back into terrible stillness. 

“Come on,” Yakov grunts. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

* * *

 

It’s night, but downtown Tokyo’s eternal lighting paints glowing splotches on Yuuri’s hotel room wall. When Yuuri catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, pale with red-rimmed eyes and wild hair, he has to grit his teeth and turn away from the ghastly sight. 

Yuuri’s stomach growls and he realizes he hasn’t eaten a single thing, not since he got the call all those hours ago. As he sits on the bed, drained of emotion, his more base bodily needs begin to scream in their neglect. Fuck, he’s so tired. He’s starving. Yuuri orders room service quickly, in a flat, emotionless voice. 

When his omurice arrives, he barely notices the taste of the egg and rice sliding down his parched throat. Yakov eats beside him, and the utter silence in the hotel room constricts his chest.

Yakov supplies him with some basic information that he’d picked up from the doctors, from the police. 

The track marks on his arm are from a synthetic, mind-altering chemical that is coming close to matching rohypnol in popularity as a date rape drug in the underground club scene. It increases pain tolerance, causes large black spots in the victim’s memory, but unlike rohypnol it acts as a strong aphrodisiac - mostly it’s taken as a tablet, but injecting it intravenously increases potency. 

Victor’s voice is gone because someone slashed his throat, those and multiple puncture wounds in his stomach and chest a clear attempt to end his life after hours of torture. Most of his worst injuries are fresh, even the amputation barely a week old. It seems he’d been kept in relative good health, until he wasn’t.

Yakov explains that he was found by a student walking his dog - his dog had smelled the blood and sniffed around to investigate, and the attacker had fled the scene at their approach. A few more minutes and Victor would have been gone. 

The words wash over Yuuri, none of them having the effect they normally would. He’s so amazingly drained, experiencing a lifetime’s worth of emotions in the span of a few hours, and his mind is in overdrive to file away things like  _ date rape drug _ and  _ would have been gone _ before they stick and make him go insane. 

What changed, Yuuri wonders. Three years with no trace of him and he’s found  _ in public _ . Why now?

“We’ll be there for visiting hours first thing in the morning,” Yakov finishes, groaning as he stands from his seat on the edge of the bed. He and Yuuri don’t share rooms for competitions or press events, not like him and Victor. 

“Yakov,” Yuuri whispers, tears threatening to choke him once more, “What if I wake up tomorrow and this has all been a dream?”

“It’s not a dream, Yuuri,” Yakov responds, softly. Softer than Yuuri has ever heard him in his life. “He’s here. He’s alive.”

“I used to,” Yuuri’s voice cracks, and he wills himself to continue, “Occasionally, I would have dreams about this. I’d find him in my dream, but then in the morning I would wake up and he’d still be gone. I can’t… Oh, Yakov, I won’t be able to stand it if tomorrow he’s gone. It’s been three years, god, I c-can’t take much more of this.” 

Yakov places his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, squeezing it tight. “He won’t be gone, Yuuri. You’re awake. This is real life, and Vitya is waiting for you just a few kilometers away.” 

There’s a beat, and Yakov continues. “I’m sorry I said those things to you earlier, before you saw him. He’s like a son to me, and seeing him like that… It hurt me more deeply than anyone, except perhaps you, can imagine.” 

“I forgive you,” Yuuri sobs, sniffling pitifully, and wraps his arms around Yakov for one last hug before they part for the night.

In the solitude of his room, Yuuri lies awake, counting down the minutes until he can see his Victor again.

* * *

 

Visiting hours begin at 9:00 in the morning, and Yuuri is bouncing his leg in the waiting area at 8:30 on the dot. He didn’t sleep more than a few hours during the night, could barely choke down a quarter of his steamed rice with egg in the morning. 

They allow him back fifteen minutes early, and he nearly knocks into the nurse, leaving with a sanitized bag of bloody bandages with the words  _ Biohazard Waste _ on the front. 

It’s amazing how much better Victor looks, even after one day. Some of the swelling has receded, especially around his eyes, which are a shimmering, bloodshot blue. This time, when he sees Yuuri, he perks up noticeably and wriggles in his bed, arms outstretched. 

Yuuri sits beside him and presses their foreheads together and, ignoring the echoing advice from the nurse yesterday, presses a soft kiss to Victor’s lips. Victor’s hands wrap around him, warm and familiar. 

“I brought,” Yuuri begins, “I brought my Kindle. I downloaded a lot of things, ah, there was this romance that came out a year ago that featured figure skating. I kept thinking how much you would like it, it got a lot of acclaim for being accurate, so…” He trails off. 

So much has happened in three years, he doesn’t know where to start. What would make Victor happiest? The slew of gold medals that he’s added to their collection through haunting programs inspired by his missing love? Hearing how Yuri is doing, how Mila and Sara got married two summers ago? 

The nurse comes in, then, distracting both of them. 

“When can he come home?” Yuuri asks, without waiting to see what she has to say. 

The nurse bows her head apologetically and says, “Soon, Katsuki-san. We still want to monitor him for a few days after his surgery, and of course we’ll need to discuss the matter of prosthetics with Nikiforov-san.” 

Prosthetics. The words hit Yuuri like shrapnel, embedding in his chest. Prosthetics, surgery. Yuuri still knows so little about Vitya’s pain, though it’s all written so clearly as marks on his body. 

Beside him, Victor inhales, sharply, and Yuuri immediately grips his hand and brings it to his lips. 

She goes about checking Victor’s vital signs, clinical and detached, while Yuuri stands to the side and tries to mask his impatience. As she leaves, Yuuri catches Victor’s eyes flitting to something on Yuuri’s hand, and he looks down to see-

Oh.

His ring, freshly polished and shimmering gold, glinting in the sunlight streaming in through the window. 

“I don’t have it,” Victor says, voice rasping and scratching, though the rich velvety notes Yuuri loves so much are still there, scrambling to come to the surface. His eyes fill with tears as he repeats, gasping, “I don’t have it.”

“Shh, baby,” Yuuri whispers, pulling Victor close and holding him tightly. “Shh. Don’t cry. You’re here, that’s what matters. Here, here-” 

Yuuri pulls the ring off of his own finger, kissing the edge of the snowflake design on the inside, and takes Victor’s trembling hand in his. The ring shines in the light as Yuuri slides it over Victor’s injured ring finger carefully, so gentle because he doesn’t want it to hurt.

There’s a moment where Yuuri’s not sure how Victor’s going to react. His eyes are red, swollen from crying, but then Victor takes a deep, shaking breath and says, “Just like in Barcelona.” 

Yuuri can’t help splitting into a wide, sappy grin, despite the circumstances. “Yes, just like in Barcelona.”

“I wanted,” Victor rasps, taking a moment to clear his throat and wince at the pain. “Ah, I’m sorry, talking is still…” 

“It’s alright,” Yuuri soothes, kissing him on the forehead. “Don’t overexert yourself. We have… We have all the time in the world to talk.”

“We do,” Victor sniffles, letting out a soft sob. “We do, don’t we?”

* * *

 

Yuuri reads Victor the first chapter of the figure skating book. It’s sweet and romantic, winding beautiful descriptions of figures with prose that borders on poetry. His arm goes numb, nestled behind Victor on the bed, but he wouldn’t even dream of moving. 

Yakov huffs and puffs his way into the hospital room after a while, just as Victor’s eyes are drooping and his breath is becoming slower from the caress of Yuuri’s voice as he reads. 

“Sorry,” Yakov grunts, plopping down in a chair and cracking his back audibly. “Sorry I’m so late. I’ve been on the phone with the Russian Skating Federation.” He groans and gratefully accepts the cup of water Yuuri passes to him. Then, carefully, he turns to Victor and asks, “How are you feeling, Vitya?”

“I’m... okay,” Victor rasps. He looks, for a moment, like he wants to say more, but then his lips press together and he closes his eyes, pained.

“What does the Russian Skating Federation want?” Yuuri asks, biting his lip nervously.

Yakov glances to Victor hesitantly, then explains, “The skating federation has told me they want to foot the bill for Victor’s prosthetics.”

“Are they… Not covered by his insurance?” Yuuri asks, nails biting into his palms as he fights to stay calm.

“They are!” Yakov rushes to soothe him, “But, if… If Vitya wants, beyond the normal prosthetics, you know the winner of last year’s Nobel Prize in medicine?”

Yuuri nods, slowly, a vague memory of the nobel prize winners trending on Facebook popping into his head. Victor does not.

“Her artificial limbs, they’re the latest in medical technology,” Yakov explains. “The prosthetics’ bone has this synthetic collagen that fuses to the actual bone, the lab grown proteins in the muscles will increase or decrease muscle strength with use, just like living muscle. They’re incredible. And, Vitya, you have the option…” 

“I want them,” Victor breathes. “I, god, I want-”

He coughs, wincing violently and wiping a pink trickle of saliva away. 

“It’ll take some time for them to grow the limbs,” Yakov says, “It’s not a great idea to put you through surgery again, so soon after, so you might… Just for a little while…”

Victor bites his lip, nods. He opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it, and looks up at Yuuri pleadingly to ask what he’s thinking.

“How long?” Yuuri asks. Victor nuzzles into his neck, his smile pressed against Yuuri’s skin. 

“Just a few weeks,” Yakov says. “In the meantime, you’ll be outfitted with temporary prosthetics. And, Vitya, we can have doctors do the surgery here, or in St. Petersburg. Just let me know which you want, and I’ll set it up for you.” 

Victor nods uncertainly. 

“Yakov,” Yuuri asks, realizing, “Why aren’t the doctors telling us this?”

“They’ll come speak to Victor later,” Yakov snorts. “They’re all terrified of you.”

Yuuri winces. He hadn’t meant to be so rude to the staff who are just doing their jobs, it’s just been…

It’s been so hard.

“Russia or Japan,” Victor murmurs, voice feather-soft.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Yuuri assures him, not sure whether that’s, in fact, true. 

“I,” Victor begins, eyes beginning to water again. “I’m sorry, Yuuri, I think… I think I want to leave Japan.” 

Yuuri’s heart hurts, pangs painfully in his chest. “It’s alright, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of Victor’s hairline. “It’s alright. Whatever you want.”

* * *

 

Leaving is as difficult the second day as it was the first. Worse, in some ways, because this time Victor can talk, and he says to Yuuri, “I’m so afraid when you leave. Afraid that I’ll wake up, that I’ll have been dreaming, that I’m still with h-him…” He takes a deep, rattling breath, and gasps, “I’m scared he’ll come back for me.” 

“He won’t,” Yuuri hisses. He says this with more conviction than he feels, despite the guards stationed outside Victor’s hotel room. Part of him wants to come back so Yuuri can  _ hurt _ him. Make him feel an ounce of the pain Victor felt.

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Victor sobs into Yuuri’s arms.

The guilt that Yuuri felt earlier about being rude is gone as the hospital staff usher him away. He kicks his legs, sullenly, knowing that he’ll be back just as early tomorrow. 

Sleep doesn’t come. When Yuuri manages to grab hold of it, it slips through his fingers like sand, leaving him groaning and exhausted in the cold dark of morning. Just before sunrise, Yuuri calls his parents in a fit of desperation, tormented by Victor’s fears of being taken from him again. 

His mother picks up after a few rings, and her sleepy “Yuuri-chan?” echoes through the receiver.

“They found him,” Yuuri sobs, without preamble, “Okaasan, they found Vicchan.”

“They found him?” Hiroko’s voice is instantly more awake. “Found… Oh, Yuuri, is he…?”

“He’s alive,” Yuuri gasps, “He’s alive, but he’s in pain, he was hurt…” 

“Oh Yuuri-chan,” Hiroko soothes, “He’s alive, you said. That’s so wonderful - oh Toshiya, they found Vicchan, he’s alive, he’s - where are you now, Yuuri? We’ll come see him, we’ll catch the next flight. Bring him a nice big bowl of katsudon, how does that sound?”

“I’m sorry, Okaasan, I think… I think he might be overwhelmed if there are too many people,” Yuuri sniffles. “I just want to take him home, have him see Makkachin again, but he’s in a hospital and we can’t leave until they clear him.”

“Hush, darling,” Hiroko soothes, “I know you want to be with him right now, but please trust that the doctors are doing this with his best interest at heart. Are you going to visit him tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Yuuri cries. 

“You’ll be together again soon, Yuuri-chan, just another few hours. Oh, I knew he’d come back to you.” 

Yuuri cries into the line as long as he needs, listening to Hiroko’s soothing voice reassure him. Finally, as sunlight peeks over the horizon, he falls back to sleep.

* * *

 

The next few days happen in a blur. He visits Victor every day as soon as visiting hours begin and doesn’t leave until they practically kick him out after visiting hours end. They read the figure skating book until Victor, sluggish and sleepy from the pain medicine he’s still on, dozes off with his cheek on Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri listens to his slow breathing until he wakes.

When Victor eats, Yuuri takes every opportunity to feed him. He pops little bits of omelette into Victor’s mouth with chopsticks, giggles as he slurps up noodles and splatters bits of sauce onto his rosy cheeks (which Yuuri gladly wipes up), and holds the miso soup cup to his lips. 

“I’m supposed to be the one who does this,” Victor pouts, with increasing strength to his voice and increasing sparkle in his eye as the days spent together wear on. 

“All in good time, my love,” Yuuri coos, wiping the sweat from Victor’s brow and thinking this hospital should hire  _ him _ as a nurse, specifically for Victor. That he would gladly make taking care of his husband a full-time job. “It’s my turn to take care of you.” 

On the third day, he arrives to Victor standing, albeit shakily, on a pair of sleek carbon fiber prosthetics. 

“Yuuri,” Victor cheers, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “Yuuri, look, I’m standing, I’m- oof!”

Yuuri steadies him just in time, linking their fingers together and holding tight as Victor stumbles forward. Their faces are so close, the height difference  _ almost _ perfect, Victor standing with his head bowed to look into Yuuri’s eyes just like the end of their Stammi Vicino routine all those years ago. 

“I,” Victor breathes, and then he starts to cry, holding Yuuri so tightly that Yuuri can feel the creaking in his joints. 

Victor is clumsy on the prosthetics, unused to their weight, how they bend at the knee far less smoothly than his legs used to, but he still takes time to attempt a little waltz with Yuuri in the hospital room, their footwork moving to the beat of a dozen beeping little machines. 

It’s not all an ascent. There’s the matter of the case, coming in the form of police officers who ask him jabbing little questions about  _ what happened _ and  _ where it happened _ and  _ please, tell us anything you remember _ .

Victor speaks haltingly, racking his brains for the barest sliver of an answer, gripping Yuuri tight all the while for comfort. 

“I’m sorry,” he says for what must be the dozenth time, “I don’t… I really don’t remember.”

“Not  _ any _ identifying information, from him or any of the people who would visit you in the bathroom? In his house, a name, a location, did you see a utility bill or bank statement or-” 

“No,” Victor sobs, “Nothing, I c-can’t… Until the end of it, he drugged me every day. I could barely remember my own name, most of the time.” 

_ Vitya,  _ Yuuri thinks miserably,  _ did he try to make you forget about me? _

“I think he was a surgeon,” Victor blurts out, suddenly.

The policeman raises his eyebrows, writing it down despite the disbelieving tilt of his eyebrow. “What makes you think that?” He asks, gently.

“The nurses,” Victor explains, waving his hand wildly towards the direction of the door. “They said… They were surprised at how precise the cuts were on, ah, my legs. I don’t think I was supposed to hear that, but I did, and. Well. He was the one who…”

He trails off, choked up again, and buries his face in Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri can feel his frantic attempts to steady his breath against the pounding pulse-point by his throat, worse, he feels the moment that Victor gives up and begins to weep, silently. The officers in the room nod and write, frantically, as Yuuri murmurs soothing sweet nothings into Victor’s ear, choking back his own tears.

It’s still so hard to leave, once visiting hours are over. Yuuri has slowly, blissfully accepted that this isn’t some dream he might wake up from alone, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep peacefully until Victor is beside him on their bed at night. 

And anyway, once he’s away from Victor, it’s just him and Yakov and the criminal case that’s left a dozen questions and no answers. Victor was abducted in Russia, that much is clear from the shattered remnants of his phone found on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, and somehow wound up in Japan. The Russian police would never even have thought to look abroad. 

How did he get from Russia to Japan? How did he go undetected in Japan for so long, when so many people know his face? Why did his kidnapper, after three years, decide to torture and try to murder him? 

A part of Yuuri doesn’t even want to know the answer to any of these questions. The part that does knows he’ll have to wait and see if Victor has answers to any of these, if he wants to share them or put this awful part of his life behind him. 

Every night, he calls home and gives his family an update on Victor. They ask, every night, if they can’t take a quick trip up to the hospital to visit, but Yuuri’s noticed that Victor gets nervous even with just him, Yakov, and one of the hospital staff in the room. As soon as they’re settled in St. Petersburg, he assures his family, they can figure out what to do.

Yuuri hasn’t slept more than a few hours since they found Victor. He just wants Victor to be back in his arms in their apartment, where he belongs.

He just wants to go home. 

* * *

Time while Victor was gone seemed to slow to a crawl, each day passing slowly, minute by agonizing minute until Yuuri fell into an exhausting sleep, only to do it again in the morning. Now, the moments zip past quick as lightning, and before Yuuri knows it Victor is discharged from the hospital.

They’re all on a plane to St. Petersburg in a few hours, first class, courtesy of Yakov pulling half a dozen strings in several different places and paying a  _ lot _ of money.

Victor sleeps a deep, pain medication induced sleep the entire trip. Yuuri watches him, the fog of his breath on the window, the flutter of his eyelashes, touching his cheek or hair on occasion just to remind himself again, again, that he’s right there. 

Dark is gathering by the time they’re in the elevator to their apartment. Victor is still clumsy on his prosthetics, but he’s wearing long pants, and underneath his pants are these soft foam covers that make the difference almost imperceptible. 

Yuuri doesn’t quite know what to do as they slowly ascend, hand in hand, just like they have a million times before. The only difference is the wheelchair Victor is sitting in, exhausted from maneuvering in the prosthetics.

It’s been three years -  _ three fucking years -  _ and Yuuri wants to say something, to make this re-christening of their home special. He searches Victor’s face for a sign of what he’s thinking and gets exhaustion, mostly. Exhaustion and a shimmer of nerves. Yuuri bites his lip.

Makkachin starts barking before they get to the door, smelling her beloved master from down the hall. Victor inhales, sharply, eyes filling with tears as he stands. Yuuri fumbles frantically with the lock, and the door swings wide open.

A hundred pounds of fluffy brown poodle come barrelling out, knocking Victor back and onto the floor. 

“Makka,” Yuuri scolds, a wave of panic washing over him as he imagines Victor’s stitches opening up. “Down, girl, your papa is sick-”

“It’s alright,” Victor laughs, honest-to-god  _ laughs _ , Makkachin pressing doggy kisses to every part of his exposed face. “It’s alright, it’s so alright - I’m here, girl, I’m right here. Papa’s home.”

He lies back onto the carpeted hallway floor and lets Makkachin flop on top of him, scratching behind her ears, rubbing her back frantically. Makkachin rolls onto her back, pawing at him with a whine, and Victor laughs again.

“Did you miss my belly rubs, hm?” he giggles, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees with a grunt of effort. Yuuri can see he’s on the brink of tears again, but these are happy tears, and he gleefully rubs Makkachin’s soft belly.

“I told you the stupid dog was going to ruin everything,” snaps someone from inside the apartment, and Yuuri’s eyes widen as he sees Yuri emerge into the doorframe.

“Yurio,” Yuuri gasps, “What are you...?”

“Don’t listen to him, he was cooing all over her a moment ago,” chirps a sweet voice from behind him, and Yuuri sees Mila’s familiar shock of red hair from further back, next to a steaming plate of pirozhki. His stomach rumbles, and Yuuri realizes he’s hungry, really hungry, for the first time in a week and a half.

Victor’s mouth is wide open in shock, even as he mechanically rub’s Makkachin’s belly, and he stands with assistance from Yuuri.

“Welcome back, old man,” Yuri sniffs, eyes maybe a little bit redder than usual. 

“Yurio,” Victor breathes. Then, he starts and says, “You’re finally taller than me.” 

“I told you that a late growth spurt was possible!” Yuri snaps.

Victor smiles, softly, and pulls Yuri into a hug. Yuri stiffens, but after a moment melts into the hug, trying and failing to mask the sound of his sniffling. Mila coos, waiting her turn to wrap her arms around Victor. 

“Georgi is in France, chasing some model, or he’d be here too,” Mila laughs. “I’m so, so glad to see you again, Victor.”

“I’m glad to be back,” Victor says with a shaky smile. 

“Tell your deda we’re really grateful for all the pirozhki,” Yuuri smiles, wiping at his eyes. 

“I made them, you asshole,” Yuri shouts with absolutely no bite. “I made those katsudon pirozhki you like so much for some reason, I made the regular kind, I made - fuck, you better eat all of them, alright?”

“We will,” Yuuri assures him, pulling Yuri into a hug of his own. 

The moment stretches on, and Victor sits heavily on the couch, huffing in exhaustion. 

“Well, we’ll be going, I’m sure you two want your alone time,” Mila says quickly, grabbing Yuri’s arm. “We just wanted to… We wanted to welcome Victor home.” 

“Thank you,” Victor grins, wiping away a few stray tears. “Thank you both so much.”

They rush out the door, leaving the pile of dozens of pirozhkis, enough to last an entire week between them. Victor buries his head in his hands and cries.

“Vitya?” Yuuri frets, coming to sit beside him on the couch. Makka jumps up to join them with a sad little whine, pawing at Victor. “Vitya, are you alright?”

“I’m alright,” Victor cries, wiping at his eyes frantically. “I’m alright. I’m happy. I’m s-so-” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and continues, “I missed them. I’m  _ home _ , Yuuri. Home.”

Yuuri kisses his cheek and holds a tissue to his nose gingerly, still careful of the injuries on his face. “Here,” he murmurs, “Blow.” 

Victor does.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see home again,” Victor whispers. 

A sudden chill washes over Yuuri and he shudders, pressing closer to Victor so that he’ll make it go away. He’s not quite sure what to say to that, so he murmurs, “Let me bring you some pirozhki, how does that sound?” 

“Katsudon pirozhki?” Victor asks. Yuuri laughs and nods.

They eat in silence, cuddled up next to each other on the couch. 

“Mm,” Victor moans, shovelling down his fourth dumpling, “So much better than hospital food, even Japanese hospital food.” 

“Yurio will be glad to hear you say that,” Yuuri snorts. 

After, full of hot food and surrounded by warm bodies, Victor’s eyelids begin to droop again. He yawns, wide and adorable, blinking sleepily. 

Yuuri helps him maneuver into the shower, grateful all over again that they’d installed that big bathtub at the bottom. They shower together, Yuuri on his knees between Victor’s thighs, non-sexual but intimate all the same. Yuuri washes Victor’s wounds with gentle, circular motions and warm, soapy water. Most of his wounds no longer bleed, but Yuuri still steels himself against the little red swirls that go down the drain. 

With Victor wrapped in a warm pair of pajamas - his favorites, the soft cotton pair with little poodles on them - and his bandages changed, Yuuri wheels him into their bedroom and helps him maneuver onto the bed. They leave the wheelchair open right there, just in case he needs to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. 

Makkachin flops onto the foot of the bed, curled up happily in her normal spot at Yuuri and Victor’s feet.

“You kept all my clothes,” Victor murmurs, nearly inaudible, Yuuri’s stomach flush against his back. “All my things.”

“Of course I did,” Yuuri responds, kissing him on the shell of his ear. 

“Everything looks just the same,” Victor says, voice wobbling again, “Everything except me.” 

Yuuri’s heart lurches painfully and he wraps his arms tighter around Victor. “You’re still beautiful,” he whispers, ignoring how much lighter Victor is in his arms, now. “You’ll always be beautiful, and I’ll always love you.”

Victor is crying again, body shaking and chest heaving. Yuuri shifts positions so Victor is in his lap, and he rocks him, playing absently with his hair as he sobs, “I remembered you.” 

“Hm?” Yuuri murmurs, kissing Victor’s hand where Yuuri’s ring is glinting even in the darkness of the room.

“I remembered you,” Victor repeats, voice cracking. “With him. I remembered there was someone out there who loved me. The drugs stopped working, I don’t know how, and I tried to escape. That’s when…” 

He gestures to his lower body helplessly, shuddering. 

“Oh Vitya,” Yuuri whispers, tears in his eyes again. He feels like he’s cried enough to last an entire lifetime, like a part of his soul has left him from crying so much.

“He tried to kill me,” Victor sobs, “He - there were others, but after, he - he was angry that I wouldn’t be docile anymore and he hurt me. Stabbed me. When the drugs stopped working I told him he couldn’t keep me from you, so as he stabbed me he said, you’ll never see Yuuri again, I’m going to kill you and you’ll never see him again. I was already hurt so badly, I couldn’t fight him off, I just wanted to see you one last time and he told me I wouldn’t, and I believed him, I thought I was going to die there-”

“He was wrong,” Yuuri says, voice firm and razor sharp. “He’s an awful, evil man, and more importantly  _ he was wrong _ . I’m right here. Look at me, Vitya, please - look at me and tell me he was wrong.”

Victor blinks, blue eyes wide and watery, and he says in fragile voice, “He was wrong.” 

“He was wrong,” Yuuri continues, “Because you saw me again. You’re going to see me every morning when you wake up in the morning, alright, baby? And every night before you go to sleep. And whenever in between then that you want. He’s never going to see you again.” 

Victor nods, sobs, and nods again. 

“He’s never going to see me again,” he whispers. 

Yuuri nods and kisses Victor’s forehead fiercely. 

“I love you, Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs against his temples. 

“I love you, Yuuri,” Victor responds, lips pressed to Yuuri’s hand. Then, he shudders, full bodied, and clings to Yuuri while Yuuri rocks him back and forth, back and forth, long after the crying has subsided. 

That’s how Victor falls asleep, curled up in Yuuri’s firm grip. Once Yuuri hears the familiar slow inhale-exhale, sees the gentle rise and fall of Victor’s chest, he lays him down gently on their pillows and pulls the blankets up around them, warm and cozy and safe. 

Yuuri’s eyelids begin to droop and he finds himself fighting them, not wanting to look away from his beautiful, strong,  _ brave _ husband who remembered him despite everything, who fought so desperately to come back to him. 

In the end, though, sleep claims him - and when he wakes up in the morning after a blessedly uninterrupted sleep, Vitya is still right by his side. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why would I write my personal statement for grad school when I could write ~a n i m e f a n f i c t i o n~ :P 
> 
> Shorter chapter, sorry! Next chapter will be up next weekend. It's like 75% done, but I couldn't finish all of what I wanted to give you by my personal deadline (which was 2 weeks), so you're just getting the first bit today. That also means that the end of this chapter is slightly heavier than I'd wanted, but hopefully it'll end on a happy enough note for you all. Next one will be fluffier. 
> 
> Ty ty for reading! I'll try to go back and respond to everyone's comments tomorrow and the day after, know that I really appreciate all of you and what you had to say about the last chapter!

In the morning, Yuuri thinks,  _ I need to make us breakfast _ . The thought comes to him, sudden and bright as a sunburst as he watches Victor sleep beside him. Victor’s lips are parted, gently, his breath soft and slow and sweet, and Yuuri wants to imprint this picture on his mind so he never forgets it.

They’d make each other breakfast before, normally Victor, normally granola or yogurt or green smoothies - typical athlete fare. Yuuri hasn’t been able to taste the sweet tang of fruit or sharp crunch of cereal since Victor disappeared.

Something special, but what? Syrniki? No, no, goodness, the cottage cheese must be rancid, what with the unexpected extra weeks he spent in Japan. Yuuri begins to fret, wondering if he even has anything for Victor to eat aside from leftover pirozhki - damn, and he can’t leave Victor alone, not like this-

“Nhh,” Victor grunts beside him, a nervous crease appearing in the space between his eyebrows. He shifts, sharply, letting out a few stacatto breaths and flopping onto his back.

Yuuri freezes, watching him in apprehension. He doesn’t want to wake his beloved, but if this is a bad dream-

“Hah,” Victor breathes, head tossing to one side.

Yuuri places his hand on Victor’s cheek, running his thumb along his warm skin. “Shh,” he soothes. “Shh, darling, you’re alright. You’re with me.”

At Yuuri’s soothing words, Victor seems to calm himself, and he settles back onto his side, his back to Yuuri. Yuuri kisses his shoulder blade and pulls himself out of bed, reinvigorated in his efforts to make a good breakfast for Victor. They should have wheat flour for blinis, at least.

Yuuri opens the fridge and his heart swells with affection for Yurio. It’s freshly stocked, not just because he’s been house-sitting, but with brand new items crinkling in untouched packaging. Eggs, cottage cheese - perfect.

Yuuri hums to himself as he makes the batter, warmth from the frying pan coloring his cheeks. It could be a scene from three years ago, and for a moment Yuuri closes his eyes, picturing a lazy weekend.

Maybe it’s in between seasons, and Victor’s sweet voice echoes as he sings in the shower as Yuuri cooks for him, pretending it’ll be a surprise even as the heavy scent of pancakes wafts through their apartment-

_ “Yuuri!” _

Victor’s voice, high and gasping, echoes in Yuuri’s reality. Yuuri has the forethought to turn off the pan before running down the hall, nearly tripping over his own feet as he pushes back into the bedroom.

“Vitya?” Yuuri pants.

Victor looks up at him with wide, watery blue eyes, absently scratching Makkachin’s head as she licks his face reassuringly. “I,” he breathes, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath, “I’m sorry, I - I was disoriented when I woke up, I forgot I was-”

Yuuri is beside him in a moment, wrapping his arms around Victor’s trembling shoulders. “I’m here now. I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I just - I was in the kitchen, I wanted to make us breakfast. I’m here now, are you alright?”

“I’m alright,” Victor mumbles into Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m… I’m alright.” He peeks up, cloudy eyes clearing, slowly. “You were making breakfast?”

“Syraniki,” Yuuri nods, kissing Victor’s cheek. “Almost ready. Do you want breakfast in bed?”

“We can’t,” Victor whispers, flushing. “You know… You know Makkachin will try to eat everything.”

Yuuri snorts. “Ah, right. I forgot why we never did breakfast in bed before.”

Victor smiles, soft and sweet and so pure that Yuuri thinks his heart might break. Then, he flushes and asks, “Could you carry me into the kitchen? I remember how much I liked you carrying me.”

Yuuri kisses Victor and lifts him bridal style, arms wrapped firmly around his shoulders and his thighs, and his heart pangs as Victor deliberately doesn’t look down at his lower body, burying his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck instead.

Makkachin pads after the two of them eagerly, nipping at Yuuri’s heels.

All of the little things that Victor used to do for him - fiddling with Yuuri’s tie, feeding Yuuri little bites of his food, tieing Yuuri’s sneakers before their morning run - Yuuri suddenly feels compelled to do for Victor. He spreads jam on the pancakes (black cherry, Victor’s favorite, which Yuuri always keeps in the house even though he finds it a bit too tart himself), cuts little bits of them and holds them up to Victor’s parted lips.

“These are amazing,” Victor breathes, “Yuuri, they’re so - I love you, so much.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri says, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

He puts on Victor’s prosthetics for him, kissing just above where the curve of his thigh comes to nothing, and when Victor rustles his hair fondly he nuzzles into the touch, desperate to feel it, to know it’s  _ real _ .

It had taken a long time for Yuuri to get used to the loss of Victor’s casual touch. He’d wonder why his lips were so chapped after skating, then remember it’s because he was used to Victor coming up to him and lecturing sternly with his cold fingertips slathering balm over Yuuri’s lips. Food lost it’s flavor. His libido shrank to nothing but a sad, lonely ache.

Yuuri helps Victor get dressed. He slathers toothpaste on Victor’s toothbrush. There is not a moment that Yuuri lets Victor out of his sight, and as he watches Victor slowly relax throughout the day, he thinks this is what Victor needs, too.

* * *

 

They don’t leave the house much for the first few weeks. Victor has a lot of Netflix to catch up on, so long, languid hours pass with the two of them cuddled together on the couch as some TV show drones on in the background. There’s barely a moment where the two of them aren’t touching, linked hands or hips pressed close or fully snuggled together.

Once, Yuuri freezes as he’s about to press play on the next episode of whatever they’re watching, lips in a shocked  _ o _  shape, and he looks to Victor in horror.

“Mm?” Victor asks, confused.

_ There’s a rape scene in this episode _ , Yuuri can’t bring himself to say. There’s been a bit of violence so far, which Victor has been alright with, and the scene is brief but it’s definitely scary and vivid and  _ there _ . Oh god, he hadn’t even remembered, he can’t just play it without saying something-

“In this episode of the show,” Yuuri begins, slowly, “There’s, um. S-something happens, to one of the characters, she’s-” His breath catches in his throat. They haven’t talked at all about what happened to Victor, everything implied through his injuries or one of the many tests the doctors put him through. “She’s assaulted, I mean, she’s-”

“Oh,” Victor says, staccato. “Oh.”

“We don’t have to, um, we can watch something else-”

“Please,” Victor says, without waiting for Yuuri to finish. He sounds terrified just by the implication of what happens on screen.

“Okay,” Yuuri stammers. “Alright. Okay.”

The silence hangs heavy in the air. Yuuri puts on a cooking program instead, and the drone of a mixer creates a pleasant white noise over the woman’s voice.

Victor doesn’t speak for a long time, though he snuggles closer to Yuuri on the couch, and he looks like he wants to.

“I remember some things,” he says, finally. There’s a frustrated resignation to his tone. “Mostly at the end. I do remember… I remember that, though. Or, some of it, I guess.”

Yuuri waits, staring at the set of Victor’s brow. His eyes are dry, he looks almost angry - angry, desperate, and unsure.

“I like it when you kiss me,” Victor says, softer this time. “None of them ever kissed me.”

“Do you want me to kiss you now?” Yuuri asks, running his thumb along Victor’s cheek.

Victor nods. Yuuri tilts his head up, gently, and presses their lips together. Victor tastes like toothpaste, the same organic spearmint brand he’s always used. The TV chatters on in the background, and Yuuri kisses Victor again. They don’t discuss it further, and Victor is both relieved Yuuri let this slide and worried that he can’t seem to find the words should it ever come up again.

They take long, slow walks with Makkachin most evenings, watching as the sun slowly sinks below the horizon. Victor’s still getting used to the prosthetics, but staying sedentary in the house makes some strange anxiety prickle at his skin, a painful sense of deja-vu that he can’t quite place.

They cover their faces, wear thick scarves and sunglasses, so no one asks uncomfortable questions. Yakov has worked his magic in keeping this out of the public eye at least until Victor feels ready to speak.

It’s nice, having nothing to do. Nothing except cook together, sleep together, wake up together - make up for all that lost time. It’s a little like their honeymoon, Yuuri thinks, where it was just the two of them and three weeks on a string of beautiful polynesian islands, soaking up the sun and each other’s presence.

One day, Victor finally plucks up the courage to ask, “Yuuri… Do you have practice?”

The question hangs in limbo for a few moments, full of implications and questions beyond what’s on the surface.

Finally, Yuuri frowns and says, “No, not right now. I need some time off. Some time to take care of you, and of myself.”

Victor nods, a few other wonderings building up against his lips. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever coach again - ever walk again, properly, even once the procedure is done.

So, instead of thinking of any of that, he whispers, “Are you finally a five-time world champion?”

Yuuri laughs, clear and ringing. “No,” he admits, sheepish. “You beat me the year you retired, then I took the season off after, well - you know. Couldn’t… Couldn’t skate.”

Victor is strangely disappointed. How silly he thinks, that he can feel disappointed that he’s returned to a husband that’s only a four-time world champion, when there are so many worse things in his life to be upset about.

“There’s still next season, though,” Yuuri sighs, wistful, running his fingers through Victor’s hair. “I’ll be the one to beat, now that I’ve got my coach back.” His hand freezes, suddenly, and Victor gazes up to see a stricken expression on his face. “I mean, I don’t want to pressure you, you might not even have thought about that-”

Victor smiles, sadly, and grabs the hand in his hair, bringing it to his lips. “I’d like that, Yuuri,” he says, fragile and honest. “I just don’t know if I can. I don’t think I’ll be able to do any of the jumps, even after the procedure.”

“Yakov can’t do any of the jumps either,” Yuuri says, stubbornly.

Victor hums thoughtfully against Yuuri’s hand.

“You don’t need to think about that now,” Yuuri assures him. “But I’ll go back to skating as soon as we can handle it, and I’ll win that fifth gold medal at World’s, and you’ll be right there to see it. I’m glad… I’m glad that you’ll be there to see it.”

Victor swells with pride and nestles deeper into Yuuri’s arms.

The nightmares start sometime during the first week. At first, Yuuri jolts awake to the sound of Victor crying into the pillow, and it isn’t until his frantic, “What’s wrong, baby?” falls on unhearing ears that he realizes Victor is trapped in a bad dream.

The first time, Yuuri makes Victor hot chocolate and they drink it in stunned silence until Victor calms enough to talk about it, which he does, shaky and hesitant. After, he falls back asleep with Yuuri’s hand stroking his arm soothingly, and  _ thinks _  he sleeps until the morning. It happens again, though, the next night - then the next.

Yuuri doesn’t wake up sometimes, or he wakes after Victor’s already forced himself awake and is scrolling through his phone with trembling fingers, listening to some recorded  _ guided meditation for trauma _  podcast. Yuuri knows he has to be careful if he wakes in the middle of the night and sees the white string of headphones across Victor’s cheeks, because he doesn’t want to startle him when he’s already so high-strung.

He finds out after that first week that Victor’s trying to keep himself quiet, and for a moment he’s on the verge of tears, until he hears Victor’s voice thick from crying as he explains, “It’s not going to get better, Yuuri - I can’t rob you of sleep, too.”

“Please,” Yuuri pleads, “Let me help you, okay, baby? Let me help you get back to sleep. I don’t care how late I’m up for you, it breaks my heart to think you’re going through this alone.”

“Yuuri,” Victor sobs, “ _ Yuuri _ .”

Yuuri wraps his arms around him and rocks him, slowly, while Makkachin prods at Victor with sad little whines.

They haven’t started looking for a therapist, not yet - Victor knows from managing Yuuri’s anxiety that the process of finding someone can be draining, even if the payoff is worth it, so they want to wait until Victor is feeling more  _ settled _ .

Victor wants to be settled. He wants to properly enjoy being at him in his beloved’s arms, not plagued by nightmares constantly, exhausted, unable to fucking  _ walk _ .

“Wake me up as much as you need,” Yuuri pleads.

Victor believes that Yuuri will do anything to help him feel just that much better - he barely slept in the weeks they were separated in the hospital. It aches, though, deep in his chest that he’s at home with the love of his life and these bad dreams are sapping the enjoyment from it.

And while Victor will make up the lost sleep in naps during the day, Yuuri does not - instead powering through with under-eye bags to watch over him as he sleeps and take care of the little household things.

“Maybe we should try finding me someone to talk to,” Victor admits finally. “Make that a priority. I don’t want to dread falling asleep.”

“I’ll do anything to help you,” Yuuri says, fiercely, and kisses him in the glowing red light of the clock at four thirty in the morning.

* * *

 

Most days, Victor is lucid. He wakes up in the morning and knows he’s in his apartment, in his bed, right next to Yuuri Katsuki, his life and love. He knows his prosthetics are propped up right by the bedside table, so he can put them on and get up if need be to stretch his sore body.

Other days, his nightmares creep in with the cold morning sunlight, and Victor needs extra reminders that he’s safe, he’s free, that his husband and dog are right beside him and he’s not… Back there.

The doctors did brain scans on him to see if the drugs had any long-term effects on his memory, aside from the short-term black spots that comprise most of the last three years, and the answer seemed to be  _ no _  - so Victor wonders whether the dream-like days are a trauma response or just something they missed. He’ll bring it up at the next check up, whenever that is. Probably.

Little reminders of what happened creep into his muscle memory. Like, Yuuri and Victor return from walking Makkachin, and Yuuri is chattering happily about how they’re going to set up Victor’s physical therapy schedule once his new prosthetics are grown in the lab, and Yuuri plops down in exhaustion on the couch, blowing out a breath-

And, on instinct, Victor sinks to the floor beside him, head resting against his knees.

It takes a moment for Victor to realize what’s happened. In fact, it’s not until Yuuri says, hushed and confused, “Vitya, baby… Did you fall?”

Everything comes back in an instant. Victor gasps in horror and scrambles onto the couch, sitting stock-still and staring at the wall. One of those heavy silences Victor’s gotten so used to fills the space.

Yuuri says, “Vicchan - do you want to talk about it?”

Victor swallows thickly, still not looking at Yuuri. “I never sat on the couch next to him.”

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri sighs, hand clasping Victor’s shoulder. “Come here. Do you remember where you are?”

Victor nods, letting Yuuri pull him into his chest. Yuuri’s hands card soothingly through his hair, soft and gentle.

“My apartment,” Victor whispers, “Our apartment. St. Petersburg.”

“Is it one of those days again?”

Victor hesitates and nods again. He can feel a sad kind of disappointment radiating off of Yuuri and guilt gnaws at him. Yuuri isn’t disappointed in his bad day, Victor knows, he’s disappointed that he didn’t tell him about it - but Victor just thought if he powered through it, he’d feel better by the afternoon.

“How did you like the last doctor you spoke to?” Yuuri murmurs against the top of his head. “Did your intake session go well?”

Victor shrugs. He’s grounded, here in Yuuri’s arms. None of  _ them _  ever held him so tenderly.

“We’ll keep looking, okay? We’ll get through this, Vicchan.”

* * *

 

The worst times are the mornings. Victor doesn’t remember most of what happened to him - it’s really just the end, a sharp bright burst of pain embedded into his memory. Calling Yuuri’s name, being beaten, being raped. His legs, there one instant, gone the next. Waking up is hard on his bad days, because his mind is so mixed up that when he wakes and can’t right himself like he used to, he’s drawn back into that house, waking up from under anesthesia and trying to stand only to find he - he can’t.

_ You can’t run to Yuuri now, can you _ ?

Every day, Yuuri will kiss him good night, hoping it’ll give him sweet dreams (it does, sometimes), and when he wakes Yuuri will kiss him good morning. It’s grounding, and as soon as the sweet softness of Yuuri wraps around him, Victor’s mind quiets and he knows he’s safe.

Once, though, Yuuri is in the shower when Victor wakes, and the room twists and blurs in his gaze. He’s half-naked, it’s been a warm week and he’s sick of ruining his pajamas with the cold sweats he wakes up in, and his hand flies up to his neck and scratches where his collar used to sit, trying to take off something that isn’t there.  _ Yuuri _  is the only thought in his head,  _ I need to get back to Yuuri, Yuuri, where are you,  _ Yuuri-

The soft patter of water fades into a panicked buzz in his head as he tries to stand only to find he - he can’t.

Makkachin’s frantic pawing at the bathroom door alerts Yuuri that something is very wrong, and he comes bouldering out in only a towel, trails of soap still slipping down his body-

The soap has dried into little, crusted streaks by the time Victor has calmed down. Yuuri doesn’t, he wouldn’t  _ thank _  his anxiety for anything, but in that moment he’s immeasurably glad that he has some reference for what to do. Victor clings to him, tangled in sheets on the floor by the bed, eyes wild with terror and body half-convulsing as he comes back to the real world.

“Where are you, Vicchan? Do you know where you are?” Yuuri pleads, for the third time, hand twitching towards his phone in case he needs to call a professional. “Please, who am I? Do you know who I am?”

Victor closes his eyes, squeezes them so tightly that bright spots appear on the black of his eyelids. He knows that voice, the voice that offers him safety, comfort, warmth, please, he needs to get out of here-

“Where are you?” Victor sobs, “I need to get back to you, Yuuri, I need to, I can’t get up-”

“I’m right here,” Yuuri says with tears in his eyes, cupping Victor’s cheeks and kissing his forehead. “I’m right here, Vitya.”

* * *

 

Yuuri hates the man that did this to Victor. He wishes him only harm - and yet, every time his phone rings from the now familiar number of the St. Petersburg police department an agonizing dread fills his heart.

He imagines sitting in the courtroom, looking at Victor, watching Victor say everything the man has done to him while the man sits only a few feet away-

“Good afternoon Yuuri,” Says the now familiar voice of Officer Petrov, “Is Mr. Nikiforov there?”

“Ah,” Yuuri stammers, gazing towards the bedroom door where Victor is taking a midday nap, “He’s asleep. Should I call back when he wakes up?”

“This is important,” Officer Petrov says.

“Okay,” Yuuri says, reluctantly dislodging Makkachin from his lap on the couch, and mutes his phone while he goes to wake Victor.

Victor whines and pulls the blanket over his head, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh.

“It’s Officer Petrov,” Yuuri coos, shaking Victor’s shoulder gently, “He says it’s important. Wake up for me, please?”

Victor blinks awake, looking suddenly wary, and Yuuri scoots under the cover next to him, arm wrapping around Victor’s shoulders.

“Put it on speakerphone,” Victor mumbles into Yuuri’s shoulder. Then, once Yuuri unmutes the conversation says louder, “What’s your important news, Officer?”

“Mr. Nikiforov!” Officer Petrov stammers, gruff police exterior momentarily broken.

It’ll never cease to be a little amusing how star-struck the personnel on the case are, Yuuri thinks. Maybe Petrov dreamed of a moment like this - Victor losing his phone, crashing his car, needing the St. Petersburg police come watch over him, and the ground staff would finally get to meet their idol. Did they ever expect they’d meet him through something like this?

“We’ve just spoken to the chief of police in the town in Japan, and we have some very serious leads,” Petrov is saying, and Victor stiffens noticeably, something unreadable in his expression. “We have - a set of circumstances lead us to some men who may have harmed Vi- Mr. Nikiforov.”

“Are they in jail?”

“Being detained for questioning. So far, two of them have confessed to rape-” Victor flinches, and Yuuri murmurs soft, soothing words into his temple, “And a third seems about ready to confess. None of them seemed to have had much contact with Victor’s kidnapper, but we’re still optimistic they’ll give us something good.”

Yuuri blows out a relieved breath, kissing Victor’s cheek.

Victor asks, “How did you find them?”

Officer Petrov doesn’t speak for a long moment. His voice is steady and soft as he responds, “I understand that your memory is fuzzy, that the details of what happened aren’t very clear. If this isn’t something you remember, I’m not sure I want to remind you.”

“Tell me,” Victor hisses, trembling.

“Are you sure-” Yuuri starts to say, but he quickly quiets as Officer Petrov begins.

“There were two massive outbreaks of chlamydia in the town Victor was found in.” Petrov’s voice is gruff, angry. “Massive for a town this size, I mean - they never have outbreaks this big, according to the hospital staff.”

“The doctor said Vitya was clean,” Yuuri snaps, cutting him off. Everything has suddenly gone very cold, but Victor wanted to know-

“He is - I mean,” Officer Petrov continues, “These weren’t recent. One was about four months ago, the other a year and a half. Now, that could have just been coincidence, or bad luck, but the Japanese police looked into it and  _ apparently _  both outbreaks coincided with the theft of a full course of antibiotics from the local hospital, which means-”

“Someone was being treated but hadn’t been taken to see a doctor,” Yuuri whispers. He feels sick, a deep, roiling pit of nausea in his stomach, and when he glances down at Victor, his expression is unreadable. “Do we know anything about the thief?”

“Not yet, though there is some video footage,” Officer Petrov says. “We isolated the names of people who had been infected both times - it was a hell of an effort to work around the privacy laws, let me tell you - and decided to start with them, which is how we got our current guys. None of them seemed to have any contact with Victor’s kidnapper, just… Just Victor. Mt. Nikiforov.”

“Why didn’t they call the police,” Yuuri shouts into the receiver, anger bursting out of him. Victor’s lips press into a nervous line. “Why did they… They saw Vitya there, they should have called the police, not-”

“They’ve been asked that,” Officer Petrov sighs, “Their answers are… Indicative of their character. I don’t think it’s helpful for me to repeat them. I’m sorry, both of you.”

The call ends. Yuuri brings his trembling hand up to his lips, bile rising in his throat, and for an instant he hates that he can’t just stay calm and see if Victor needs anything.

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, grabbing Yuuri’s other hand. “It’s alright. I don’t - I don’t remember any of that.”

Yuuri lets out a sob-laugh and pulls Victor closer to him. “You shouldn’t be comforting me,” he sniffles. “Y-you shouldn’t need to-”

“I’d feel the same, if you were hurt,” Victor mumbles, shifting around so he’s lying with his head on Yuuri’s stomach. “It’s so strange, when I think about it. The kidnapper was obsessed with me, and yet, he let all those other men…” He trails off, biting his lip.

“Oh god,” Yuuri sobs. “I want this to be over, I want them all in jail, or dead, I don’t want to think about how they hurt you or any of that. I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry you went through this-”

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Victor whispers, not for the first time. “But I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Yuuri cries, cradling Victor desperately, “You did.”

Victor murmurs, “I’m not afraid of him finding me. At the beginning, I was so worried he’d try to take me back. I’m not anymore, though.”

Yuuri blinks, sniffling. “That’s… Good,” he says, uncertainly.

“Not only because we barely leave the house,” Victor says with a self-deprecating snort, “I don’t know, I kind of feel like if he was going to try to take me back, he would have already.”

“Hm,” Yuuri hums, thoughtfully, wiping his eyes. “That makes sense.”

He takes a moment to calm himself, to take in the sight of Victor lying on top of him, his silver hair and sad blue eyes and soft skin.  _ It’s over _ , he thinks, tear-tracks growing cold on his cheeks.  _ It’s done. Don’t cry, Yuuri, Victor’s not going anywhere this time. _

Yuuri murmurs, “Hey, you know something that makes me happy?”

“What?”

“Wherever he is, he probably knows that you’ve found me again. He did every evil thing he could to keep you with him, but he couldn’t manage it, and if he knows you’re alive - which you must be, since the funeral would be broadcast internationally-”

“He knows I’m with my husband,” Victor finishes for him, a look of wonder settling across his face. “He must be - he must be  _ furious _ .”

“Yes,” Yuuri smiles, heart panging at the strange mixture of sadness and triumph. “Furious. But I think you’re right - he won’t come for you again. And the next time you see him, it’ll be in court, on your own terms.”

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers, face lit up in awe from Yuuri’s encouraging words.

“When you make that first public statement, I’ll be right there next to you,” Yuuri shifts positions so he’s more comfortable and continues, “I don’t know where he’ll be at that point. Hopefully in jail - but the point is, he’s going to have to watch you tell the world that we’re together again. That you don’t belong to him.”

“Huh,” Victor says, “I hadn’t thought about it that way. Almost makes me want to make the statement sooner.”

“If that’s what you want,” Yuuri smiles, nuzzling against Victor’s cheek. “But we don’t need to rush. And we don’t need to think about him anymore. Do you want to go back to your nap?”

“Mm, I think I’m awake,” Victor yawns. “Want to go for a walk?”

Yuuri kisses Victor softly. “With you, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to say hi on [tumblr](https://revampired.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say one week? I meant, uh.............
> 
> Next chapter should once again be 2-3 weeks! I'll respond to the comments I missed last time in the next day or so, goddamn I'm so bad at that :P I really appreciate all of you!

It takes a little bit, but eventually Victor feels up to opening up their apartment to guests. Before, occasionally, he’d get a call from Yakov just to chat, or he’d field a text from Yuri asking  _ when the fuck are you coming back to the ice, Katsudon? _

Yuuri knows it must cut Yakov that Victor hasn’t seen him in person since the hospital, but he hopes he understands - they’ve really needed the time, just the two of them. Reacquainting themselves with each other’s face, each other’s touch. 

It had been a dream as a child, just him and Victor Nikiforov and no responsibilities, bodies tangled together. And while these past few weeks have had significantly less sex than younger Yuuri had imagined, they’ve had an almost dream-like quality in how close Victor has been. He’s a constant hot water bottle, his warmth wrapping around Yuuri, and Yuuri shivers when they’re not touching because it’s too cold, even though spring is breaking over St. Petersburg.

It’s not bad, though, to have Yakov over for dinner once a week, to gently ease both of them back to reality. 

Yuuri and Victor cook together, a simple stir fry. Victor leans heavily on Yuuri as Yuuri swirls rice and vegetables together in the pan. The procedure on Victor’s legs should happen any day now, so the evenings of roast meats and ice cream for dessert are coming to an end, and Yuuri will return to his normal workout regimen. Maybe Victor will, too. 

Yakov pulls Victor into a long hug when he arrives that evening, and Victor’s finger grasp childishly at his sweater as wraps around him. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor sighs, “For not calling you more often. I know you’ve been worried about me, I’m just… Sometimes, even talking to Yuuri is tiring.”

Yuuri smiles, sadly. They’ve talked about that, and Yuuri is perfectly content to sit in silence, letting Victor fumble with the thoughts in his head, shifting them around in the ways his therapist has said are helpful.

Yakov snorts. “You never called me before, either. I’d be more worried if you suddenly wanted to talk my ear off.”

No one calls Yakov out on his lie, and instead they eat in companionable silence. 

“Yurio’s asked after you,” Yakov grunts, spooning rice into his mouth. He still hasn’t quite mastered chopsticks. “Both of you. A few times, now.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Yuuri smiles, holding Victor’s hand as they eat. 

“I will too,” Victor nods. “Once I can be seen in public again.” 

Yuuri winces, but he squeezes Victor’s hand with a sad little smile. 

“Tell him we still have some pirozhki left in the freezer,” Victor says through a mouthful of food. Even weeks later, he sometimes eats like his dinner might be the last meal he’ll ever have. “He made enough to feed an army.” 

“I’ll pass it on,” Yakov laughs. He turns to Yuuri. “He keeps swearing he’s going to beat you this year.”

“Oh Yurio,” Yuuri snorts. “He’s still so competitive, as though he didn’t win the Olympic gold last year.” 

Victor starts. Yuuri and Victor’s life has gone back to what it was like before, so sometimes Victor forgets how long it’s truly been. It may have well have been three months, for all he remembers, so to suddenly be reminded that it’s been  _ three years _ \- oh, hadn’t he and Yuuri been talking about the Olympics before he disappeared? How they’d need to start practicing then, for an event two years away-

“Vitya?” Yuuri’s voice is warm, concerned, and Victor shakes his head. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “Got lost in thought.”

Yuuri nuzzles Victor’s hand against his cheek reassuringly. 

“The world has changed,” Victor sighs, wistfully. 

“Some things stay the same, though,” Yuuri pokes Victor’s nose, and Victor wrinkles it, cutely. “You’re going to coach me to beat Yurio next year.” He pales, then, and turns to Yakov. “I mean…”

“I’d be an idiot if I thought you’d do anything different, should Vitya return to coaching,” Yakov admits. He turns to Victor, “Is that your plan, then?”

Victor nods, hesitantly. “I think so. I miss skating, being around the ice. Do they think… Do they think I’ll be able to, once they procedure is done?”

Yakov winces. “Probably,” he says, honest, “But they don’t know for sure. They gave me a few reasons, but they’re not very pretty.”

“I”d rather hear it from you than from one of them,” Victor admits.

Yakov sighs, but he only hesitates for a moment before he says, “The other patients who have had this kind of prosthetic were cancer patients, so the limbs were surgically put on immediately after an infected leg was amputated. The nerve endings were fresh, live. In this case, the amputation happened before, so they’re still determining how best to grow the limbs in the lab so they’ll work without cutting any further. That’s why it’s taking so long.”

Victor nods, looking a little green. 

Yakov frowns and says, a little unsure, “Sorry - was that too graphic? I don’t… I wouldn’t want to-”

“A little,” Victor shakes his head, “Sorry, it’s just - a lot to take in.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Yakov says, gruffly. 

“Yakov,” Victor murmurs, “What if I don’t want the procedure?” 

Yakov blinks. Yuuri and Yakov say, at the same time, “What?”

“I mean,” Victor backtracks, looking a little stunned at his own admission, “The RSF is paying for this, so they must think - they must want to do this so I can skate for them again, even if it’s not as a competitor. It’s not just charity, it never is, with them.” 

“Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs, bringing Victor’s hand to his lips.

“And what if - once I get them, everyone will expect things to go back to normal?” Victor’s eyes are tearing up now, and he wipes at them furiously. “Like, once the last  _ physical _ reminder of this is gone, it’ll suddenly stop affecting me. Everyone’s expectations for my recovery, for my prosthetics, it’s such a weight. Such a weight, Yakov.”

He bites his lip, looking at the ground.

“Vitya,” Yuuri repeats, tears beading up in his eyes as well. “Please-”

Before he can finish that thought, though, Yakov has pushed himself up from the table and wrapped Victor in a tight hug, gruff face stricken with grief.

“Damn the RSF,” Yakov snarls. 

Shock dries the tears from Victor’s eyes, and he blinks.

“Vitya,” Yakov says, pulling back to look Victor in the eye, “Don’t think of anyone else right now. Think of what  _ you _ want. Will it make you happier if we don’t get the prosthetics? If you stay with the ones you have now?”

Victor thinks. He’s gotten used to them - they’re lightweight, if a little stiff and unwieldy. Yuuri and Victor take long walks together through the winding streets after dark, faces covered - he’s always so tired by the end, though, even though Yuuri is clearly still thrumming with energy. Plus, his current form is what  _ he _ wanted, his kidnapper. It’s a symbol of his entrapment, how far his abuser would go to keep him from Yuuri, and it  _ hurts _ to wake in the morning and remember when he sees his legs end at the knee under the sheets of their bed. 

“I don’t think so,” Victor frowns, eyes closed. 

“If it’s what you want,” Yakov says, slowly, “We’ll get the new prosthetics. And if afterwards, you want to lie in bed and eat cake all day and never take to the ice again, the RSF won’t do a thing to stop you. I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Thank you, Yakov,” Victor whispers, wiping at his eyes. 

Yakov hugs him one more time, and they go back to their food.

* * *

 

Long after, Yuuri and Victor lie on the couch, watching something silly and light on the TV.

Victor taps his chin, thoughtfully, and says, “I’d forgotten how comforting Yakov can be.”

“Mm?” Yuuri mumbles, head resting on Victor’s chest. Victor strokes his hair, gentle and tender. 

“I know, he doesn’t seem it,” Victor laughs softly. “You’ve been so good to me, Yuuri, but I realized how much I’ve put on you.”

“That’s not true,” Yuuri says, voice rumbling into Victor’s chest. “You have your therapist. And anyway, I’m your husband, I’m supposed to be there for you.” 

“I want to see Okaasan and Otousan again,” Victor sighs. “I miss them. They must be so worried about me.”

“They are,” Yuuri smiles, “But they understand you need time. Do you want to plan a visit, though? You and me in the onsen, Okaasan feeding us katsudon…” 

Victor winces. “Not quite yet,” he admits. “I’m not ready to go back to Japan so soon. Do you think they’d visit here, though?”

Yuuri taps his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe,” he says, “None of them have ever left Japan before. I’m sure they’d make an exception for you, though.”

Victor smiles, softly. He shuffles around a little so that he’s more comfortable on the bed, and he falls asleep with Yuuri wrapped around him, hoping this night will be dreamless.

* * *

 

Yuuri has just come out of the shower - his hair is wet, and little rivulets of water drip down his naked back. From the bedroom, Victor can see him standing in front of the mirror - Yuuri keeps the bathroom door open when he goes in by himself, so Victor knows he’s in there, so Victor isn’t alone with Makka in an empty bedroom where his mind can wander - his lips pink and plump from the steam. 

Before, this would be Victor’s cue to pull Yuuri into a flurry of kisses, to pull the towel from his hips, to touch him - and he still wants to. 

God, does he want to. 

The sex thing is something neither of them has dared really bring up yet. Bringing it up means talking about the rape, when normally Victor is perfectly content to let it simmer there beneath the surface, a fly buzzing by his ear as opposed to something worse. That’s the one thing they both struggle to talk about with each other, even as Victor has started bringing it up with his therapist.

They kiss a lot. The kisses get heavy, sometimes, a movie playing behind them as Victor loops his arms around Yuuri’s neck and straddles him, slides his tongue against Yuuri’s parted lips. Yuuri never initiates, something Victor finds simultaneously sweet and frustrating. 

It’s hard not to wonder if Yuuri never initiates because he’s no longer sexually attracted to him, if time has taken away his desire. A harsh voice in the back of Victor’s mind whispers,  _ you’re disgusting like this. Look down, you know why he never initiates. _

He knows, deep in his heart, that’s not true. He sees the way Yuuri’s gaze slides down his naked body in the shower, not wavering even as he gets to Victor’s legs. Victor knows Yuuri wants him, and  _ god _ does he want Yuuri, too.

Victor wakes up hard sometimes, pressed close against Yuuri’s back, and in the mornings Yuuri is spooning him he can feel Yuuri as well. They never act on it, though. 

Their relationship was intimately physical before, a passion never dampened in their years of marriage. Victor remembers how Yuuri’s hands feel on him, how Yuuri feels  _ in _ him, remembers the sweat and smell of sex and sound of laughter bouncing off the walls of their apartment.

Whispering  _ I love you _ , tangled up in the afterglow. 

When Victor sees Yuuri there after the shower, he pulls him in for a kiss. Pulls him back onto the bed. 

“Mm,” Yuuri mumbles against his mouth. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Yuuri,” Victor moans, desperate, hands clenching the lean muscles of Yuuri’s shoulders. “You look amazing.” 

Yuuri deepens the kiss, flopping back onto the sheets. “I just showered,” he fake-protests, as Victor rolls on top of him. “You look amazing too, darling.” 

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, “I want…”

He pauses to press a flurry of kisses to Yuuri’s cheeks, his jawline.

“Tell me what you want, Vicchan,” Yuuri gasps, turning his head to expose the pale skin of his neck for Victor. His hands slide just a little bit lower down Victor’s sides, over his hips. Victor shudders pleasantly. 

“I…” Victor pauses, thinking. “I don’t know what I want. Other than you.”

Yuuri smiles sadly, running his thumb along Victor’s cheek. “That’s alright, darling.” 

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” Victor sighs, falling to his elbows on the bed. “I know that I’m attracted to you. I remember how much I loved being physical with you, but it’s like… As soon as I start… I freeze up. Everything freezes up.” 

“We don’t have to,” Yuuri says, carefully. “I’m not upset that you can’t make love to me right now, you know that, right?” 

“That’s the thing,” Victor whines, “I  _ want _ to. I’m upset with myself that I want to, but everything is still just such a mess in my head, and I - I think of you sucking me off, but if you did, I’d have to look  _ down there _ and see…” 

“Victor-”

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t be so disgusted by not having them but - It’s not like I lost them in a car accident, though, or because of a sickness-”

“Please,” Yuuri pleads, pressing his fingers to Victor’s lips, “You know how much it hurts me to hear you talk about yourself that way. You’re not some broken thing, okay? You don’t need to put yourself down to justify why you can’t have sex yet. It’s  _ fine _ . You’re fine.” 

Victor blows out a breath, shaking his head as if coming out of a stupor. 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, voice so soft it’s almost imperceptible. Victor’s not really sure if he’s fine, or if he’ll ever be fine again, but it’s so grounding somehow, to hear it from Yuuri’s lips. 

“Yes, you are,” Yuuri smiles, shifting so he’s sitting against the headboard and ruffling Victor’s hair. “You’re handsome, too.”

Victor preens at the praise, just as he always has. 

“We should work on this,” Victor says, firm and determined. “Being intimate, I mean. I miss it, I really do. If we do, though, we’ll need to talk about some things that maybe… Maybe will be difficult. I think I can do it, though. If you’re there with me.”

“I can too,” Yuuri responds. “I’ll always be there with you.”

“Thank you, Yuuri,” Victor breathes, blue eyes blinking up at him. Yuuri’s hair is mussed, his lips pink and kiss-bitten, practically begging for more. He bites his lip and says, “I think… I think I’d like to keep kissing you now, if that’s alright.”

“More than alright,” Yuuri grins, pulling Victor up to him.

* * *

 

Victor is asleep when Yuuri gets the call. He’s had such a rough night, so he’s sleeping it off in little batches during the day, in between meals and the occasional episode of a TV show - this happens more than either of them want to admit, and the plastic of the monitor presses painfully against Yuuri’s hip as he listens to the low, whimpering noises Victor makes some times through it. 

Yuuri doesn’t want to admit how nervous he is to be alone in the living room, just him and Makka. It’s hitting him hard today, reminding him of the long, lonely months, just the two of them begging for any sign from Victor.

“Hello, is this Victor Nikiforov?” Chirps a cheerful voice from the other end of the line.

“Uh,” Yuuri says, worried for a second that this is a reporter. 

Luckily, the woman goes on quickly, “I’m calling from the hospital, his prosthetics have arrived. We’re ready to go with the surgery.”

Yuuri blinks. “Oh,” he stammers, “Oh.  _ Oh _ , fantastic! I’ll tell him, this is Yuuri Katsuki, by the way, I, Victor doesn’t have his own phone just yet-”

“When should we schedule the appointment? He has top priority so we’ll work with your schedule.”

“H-hopefully not above- Oh, nevermind, um,” Yuuri stammers, “He’s asleep - I mean, not around. I’ll call you back?”

“Sure,” the woman says, sounding strangely disappointed. “Actually, um - could  _ he _ maybe call me back? Us back, I mean. At the hospital.” 

Yuuri is strangely out of his depth. It’s been years since he’s dealt with Victor Nikiforov fans, and here, as they casually discuss his missing limbs, it’s almost too surreal to handle.

“Yes,” he manages, hanging up the phone before the receptionist can respond. 

The apartment is silent after the call. Yuuri takes a minute to compose himself, heart pounding steadily in his chest. Vitya’s going to walk again, he thinks, walk without hinderance. For some reason, the thought causes a strange spike of nerves in his stomach, and he shudders.

* * *

 

The surgery fast approaches, and he night before, Victor is in an awful panic. He can’t seem to calm himself, as thoughts of needles pricking into his arm and losing himself to a drugged haze and waking up so scared and so terribly alone race through his mind.

Before Yuuri can think, they’re back in the hospital with Victor squirming on his back in the bed. The antiseptic smell, the stark white walls, the rustle of stiff starched hospital uniforms - it brings back awful, painful memories of those first few weeks apart. Yuuri doesn’t like this, and his gut churns and roils, knowing that these might be some of the longest hours of his life. 

Long like waiting for the police to get back to him, the first day Victor went missing. 

Victor looks like he might throw up, and he worries his lip between his teeth until Yuuri holds his hand and runs soothing circles into his palm. With the short-sleeved hospital gown on, Yuuri can see the marks from hundreds of needle-pricks in the crook of Victor’s elbow, the discolored and bruised flesh. 

“It’s a quick surgery,” Yuuri murmurs, half for himself and half for Victor’s sake. “You’ll be home this afternoon, and I’ll spoon feed you ice cream until you feel better.” 

Victor manages a smile, though his skin is still tinged a little green. 

“I’m having trouble staying focused,” he admits, in Japanese so the nurses can’t understand him. “It’s… It’s not a bad day, but I’m reminded so much of the hospital in Japan. I’m worried what will happen when I wake up.”

“Remember your grounding exercises,” Yuuri responds, in Japanese as well, “It’s Tuesday, May 15th. You’re in St. Petersburg. The nurses should ask you that, afterward, I think.” 

Their conversation stops when a severe woman with cheekbones sharp enough to rival Lilia’s comes in, Yakov close behind. 

“Victor Nikiforov,” she says, with deadly seriousness, “It is an absolute honor to be the surgeon presiding over your prosthetics today.” 

Her voice holds no hint of irony. Victor smiles, weakly, trying for the easy fake grin he gives to particularly persistent reporters, but doesn’t quite manage it. 

Luckily, the woman doesn’t seem to need a smile - Yuuri wonders, briefly, if she’s ever smiled in her life - but she nods curtly with immense pride shimmering in her eyes.

“I will prepare the prosthetics. My anesthesiologist will be in shortly,” she snaps, before turning on her heel and stalking out. 

Yuuri notes the hospital staff outside, the frantic and excited whispers like the buzz of the fluorescent lighting, and his stomach churns uncomfortably. Victor isn’t here as Russia’s living legend, he’s here as a victim - a survivor, Yuuri corrects himself - of horrific abuse, and it’s a damn shame he can’t turn off his fame even in his most vulnerable moments. 

Yakov sighs, joints popping as he settles down into a chair. 

“How are you doing, Vitya?” he asks, softly. 

“Okay,” Victor mumbles, not quite meeting his eye. “I’m nervous.”

“Surgery is always nerve-wracking,” Yakov acknowledges. “You’re in great hands, though, the RSF made sure of it.”

Victor snorts. “Of course. They’ve always taken care of me.”

Yuuri catches the hint of bitterness in his tone and squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. He’s heard at length how Victor feels about the RSF - their regulations, the picture of him they painted because just Victor wasn’t interesting enough. It seems, after his ordeal, Victor’s ability to deal with all that has frayed.

“Remember,” Yakov says, “This isn’t about what they want. You don’t have to decide anything just yet.”

Victor nods with a shaky little smile. Yuuri kisses the corners of his mouth.

The anesthesiologist comes in then, smiling sweetly. 

“Good morning, Mr. Nikiforov,” She says. “I’ll be administering your anesthetic today. When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” he whispers. Victor grips Yuuri’s hand Yuuri feels the clammy cold of his palms. 

“Good, good. Well, let’s get started,” she chirps, taking hold of Victor’s wrist-

Victor yelps and pulls his hand away, trembling. Yuuri connects the dots in an instant as he notes the flash of bruised flesh at Victor’s elbow, even as Victor turns to him imploringly, as though there’s something Yuuri can do about the anesthetic.

“Is… Everything okay?” the anesthesiologist asks, nervously.

“He doesn’t like needles,” Yuuri answers, and it’s not technically a lie.

The anesthesiologist frowns. “We’ve dealt with fear of needles before, though - I can run Victor through some deep breathing exercises. Would you like that?”

Victor shakes his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I thought… My hand is fine.”

Her eyebrows quirk up in confusion, and Yuuri realizes she doesn’t quite understand what that means.

“Just, ah,” Yuuri suggests, “Maybe warn him? Before you touch him? It’s… He’s fine with the needle in the back of his hand, though, is what he’s saying.”

The anesthesiologist nods, apologetic. Her eyes hold the same excited glimmer as all the professional staff in Russia who have worked with Victor, and Yuuri pictures her going home that evening, giddy, saying, “I put Victor Nikiforov under during his surgery. Did you know he’s terrified of needles?”

“May I take your hand, Victor?” She asks, saying his name casual as an old friend. Victor nods and stretches it out, the tremors through his body causing the tubes attached to him to shake. “Just keep breathing, you’re alright. It’ll just be a quick prick, then we’ll count down from ten. Okay?”

Reluctantly, at an insistent tug from Yakov, Yuuri backs away with one last squeeze to Victor’s hand. They’ve already caused enough problems, asking to be in the room while Victor receives his anesthetic. Much as the staring annoys Yuuri, Victor’s star status is the only reason they haven’t had to wait in the lobby for this part like everyone else does.

“In for three,” the anesthesiologist says, rustling around with the IV drip. “One, two, three…”

Victor breathes in shakily. He whimpers when he feels her prodding at the back of his hand for his vein.

“Out for three. One, two, three-”

Victor lets out a yelp as the needle goes in and his torso jerks violently. The anesthesiologist jumps to hold his arm down.

“You’re okay,” Yuuri says from a few feet away, “You’re okay. Shh, shh baby, I’m right here.”

“Head back please, Victor,” The doctor says, gentle as a feather. A flash of white-hot anger courses through Yuuri even as Victor turns when he sees the expression on Victor’s face, even though he knows,  _ he knows _ this is a necessary part of the procedure. 

Victor is outfitted with the oxygen mask, hands still clenched into a fist at his side, and he breathes deeply as he starts to go under. 

“I’ll see you again soon,” Yuuri murmurs, not sure Victor can even hear him.

“Alright,” the anesthesiologist says, “I want you to count back from ten with me. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…”

Victor’s grip goes slack, and his pretty blue eyes flutter shut as the doctor counts down. Yuuri reluctantly watches as Victor's hand falls back, limp, against the bed. 

“He’s in good hands,” the anesthesiologist smiles. Yuuri blinks and nods, barely registering the motion. 

They take Victor out of the room, a few of the staff sparing a bewildered glance in Yuuri and Yakov’s direction. Finally, Yakov puts his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder and guides him back into the hospital lobby.

“He’ll be out soon,” Yakov grunts, voice gruff and thick with emotion.

Yuuri nods. He buries his face in Yakov’s broad chest and waits for Victor to be with him again.

* * *

 

“I have some news,” Yakov murmurs as the second hour sets in. “I wasn’t sure when to tell you, but - so long as we have the time.”

“Mm?” Yuuri hums, head resting on Yakov’s shoulder. 

“They know who kidnapped Victor,” Yakov says.

Yuuri jolts up, eyes searching Yakov’s face frantically. “Is he… Do they have him?”

Yakov shakes his head, slow and pained. “No. He’s missing.”

An icy chill creeps down Yuuri’s spine, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Yakov…”

“His name is Isao Honda,” Yakov begins, “Works at a local pharmacy, but that was just a front. In reality, he was a sort of contract torturer for the local branch of the Yakuza. The thing is, Japanese police have talked to their contacts within the organized crime system, and they say no one’s heard from him in weeks.”

Yuuri swallows, throat suddenly sticky-dry. “Is that a good sign?”

Yakov frowns. “I don’t know. Russian police are doing what they can to see if he made his way over here. I don’t… There’s something I can’t tell you just yet, but I’m pretty sure Victor is safe.” 

“Yakov,” Yuuri pleads, big brown eyes filling with tears, “Please, don’t be so cryptic with me if Victor is in danger. This man kidnapped my husband, he tortured him, he r-”

Bile fills the back of Yuuri’s throat before he can say the word out loud, and he chokes on his own acrid vomit. Yakov pats his back and, when Yuuri’s breathing steadies, wraps his arm around him and rocks him. It stuns Yuuri to his senses for a moment, how fatherly this feels. 

“Once we have more information, I’ll tell you,” Yakov promises, “I don’t want you to worry when Victor’s recovery is still ahead of you. They’ll need… They’ll need to show him a picture, just to be sure they have the right guy, and that’ll… That’ll probably be really hard for him.”

Yuuri lets out a low sob and clings to Yakov until the shaking subsides. 

Finally, he calms enough to say, with dawning comprehension, “That’s how… I wondered, how could he afford the drugs for  _ three years _ , how could this keep going without anyone knowing…” He closes his eyes, fists clenching in fury. “How’d they find him?” 

“Boss at the pharmacy went to go check on him when he hadn’t gone to work in a week,” Yakov sighs. “Signs pointed to a struggle, so he called the police - and they found everything connecting him to Victor, even DNA evidence on a toothbrush in the bathroom.” 

“And the other men,” Yuuri hisses, anger replacing the sudden panic, “Where they Yakuza as well?”

“Mostly no,” Yakov admits, voice taking on a hard edge.

“Just scum, then,” Yuuri spits. 

Yakov doesn’t respond.

Yuuri blinks, suddenly. “Yakov… Was he a surgeon? At least at one point?”

Yakov starts in surprise and nods, slowly. “Yes. A long time ago. He lost his license a few years before he went after Victor.” 

“What for?” Yuuri murmurs.

Yakov winces. “Having sex with his patients in the OR, while they were under anesthetic.”

“Jesus!” Yuuri spits out, lurching forward as his stomach churns.

“Yeah. Did some jail time. That’s when he got involved in organized crime, I suppose.” 

“God,” Yuuri breathes slowly, through his nose, “Oh  _ god _ .”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence after that, among the chatter of nurses and shifting of chairs as loved ones go in and out.

“He’ll be out soon,” Yakov sighs. “You’ll be together again soon, Yuuri.”

Yuuri closes his eyes and leans back onto Yakov’s shoulder.

* * *

 

Victor is still a little disoriented from the pain medicine when Yuuri bolts into his room in the ward, his blue eyes cloudy and dull, but he holds his hands out for Yuuri to fall into all the same.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri frets, placing his palm over Victor’s sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t know what year it was,” Victor whispers, “When I first woke up.” 

“Vitya,” Yuuri chokes, pressing their forehead together. “It’s alright. Of course you’ll be fuzzy after a procedure like that, but I’m here now, and you’re… Your legs are…”

Yuuri takes a deep breath and puts his hand on Victor’s thigh, squeezes it under the blanket reassuringly, and slowly slides it down until he feels the hard knob of his knee, and even below that-

He lets out a breath, rough and shaking, searching Victor’s face desperately for some sign of how he’s doing emotionally. 

“It hasn’t really sunk in yet,” Victor mumbles, a little bemused, where his toes now peek out at the end of the bed. When he wriggles them, he starts in shock, as if he hadn’t expected them to actually move. 

“They’re beautiful,” Yuuri murmurs, kissing Victor on the mouth. The curl of Victor’s toenails is just a little different, he notes, and the birthmark on his big toe is just a little too small. 

“You haven’t even seen them,” Victor whines. “ _ I _ haven’t even seen them.” 

Yuuri’s fingers curl at the edge of his blankets. “May I?” He asks, breathy and soft.

Victor flushes, lips parting at the intimacy. “I want to see them with you,” he murmurs.

Yuuri takes a deep breath and peels back the blankets. The synthetic skin blends seamlessly with Victor’s biological shade, his limbs are warm to the touch if a little soft - though that’s more due to years of neglect than an error on the surgeon’s part - and even the little silver hairs curl just like Yuuri remembers, thicker and darker on his calves before fading into a fine silk as they approach his thighs.

The hospital gown covers the rest, but Victor’s eyes are shimmering with tears as he rolls his ankles around and flexes his toes back and forth. Yuuri swallows down the thick lump of emotion in his throat and leans reverently to press a kiss to Victor’s intact knee.

“Um, Yuuri,” Yakov coughs, “You two aren’t… You’re not alone.”

Yuuri’s head jolts up and he flushes hot at the interested stares of the hospital staff behind them.

“I see you’ve gotten a head start on the physical therapy,” coughs a young man with very pink cheeks. 

The doctor from before, with the very sharp cheekbones - god, Yuuri can’t remember all of their names, there have been so many intruders into their life recently - steps forward stiffly and says, “The surgery was a complete success. We tested his neural pathways along the way to insure proper brain to body communication, but we’ll run you through a few quick exercises to make sure you can walk.” Her gaze turns flinty. “It will take time for the synthetic bone to fuse with your natural bone. In that time, no strenuous exercise involving the legs. Walking is permitted, but slowly. In two weeks, your physical therapist will determine how to proceed. Understood?”

Victor nods, meekly. 

The doctor nods. “Good. Then, if all else goes well, you should be discharged within the hour.”

“Thank you, Doctor Ivanova,” Victor whispers.

Yuuri swears he sees her eyes go a little misty at that, but before he can comment further, she turns on her heel and walks away.

“Just another hour,” Yuuri murmurs to Victor. “Just another hour, and we’ll be home again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise mafia au fic! Just kidding haha, it just seemed like that was the most convenient explanation for all the plot stuff in the doujin. Don't panic too much about the kidnapper. I normally wouldn't give spoilers for my stories, but this is all about Yuuri and Victor healing, so if he does make an appearance it won't be too violent or scary or anything like that. I already have planned out what's gonna happen there and I swear it's not that bad.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be 3 chapters max what am I doin!!!!
> 
> Also I keep reading the stuff I write for it and I'm like "hey... this was supposed to be a HAPPY fic, ya angst monster." So I made sure for this chapter to add in more stuff about how in love Yuuri and Victor are, and just kind of changed the tone a little bit. Hopefully you find it to your liking!
> 
> Also does this chapter warrant an E rating? I don't think so, but let me know. 
> 
> Happy NYE, and I'll see you in the new year with updates to my other fic :P

It’s late in the evening when Yuuri and Victor finally, blessedly, stumble into their apartment. Or, Yuuri stumbles, tripping over a shoelace as he maneuvers the wheelchair over debris and scattered household items. Victor always did leave a bit of a mess. 

Yuuri’s heart warms at the little bits of clutter - reminders that Victor is  _ home _ . That he’s wound himself back into the corners of the apartment, just as though he’d never left.

Makkachin is at Yuri’s for the night, just to be safe, so her over-enthusiasm at Victor’s reappearance doesn’t cause any damage.

“I can walk now,” Victor pouts as Yuuri wheels him right in front of the couch.

“I like to carry you around,” Yuuri responds, grunting a little at the added weight from Victor’s new legs as he slides him, gracelessly, from the chair and onto the couch. “Besides, they said you should take it easy for today.”

Victor is  _ heavy _ . Yuuri is used to carrying him around, even from before, but the carbon fiber bones currently fusing to Victor’s natural flesh are just that much denser. The new prosthetics look the same, but they aren’t Victor’s legs - and they’ll still have a learning curve before Victor is walking like normal.

Yuuri sighs and plops down on the couch. Victor smiles at him, small and nervous, and rests his legs over Yuuri’s lap. 

They look lovely. Yuuri takes this quiet, intimate moment to take in every detail of the prosthetics, from the soft silver hairs to the slow flex and release of Victor’s calf muscles. The muscles feel firm, firmer than a non-athlete - but nothing makes up for hours and hours of physical conditioning a day. Luckily, the muscles should firm just like human legs, so once they’re good to start training again Yuuri imagines Victor will be as tight and toned as before.

Victor wriggles his toes, flexes his ankles, still looking a little awestruck at the lump of his anke and the freshly manicured toenails. Yuuri runs his thumb along the sole of Victor’s foot and Victor giggles, saying with delight, “It tickles!”

Yuuri’s phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, grimacing as a series of frantic notifications fill his lock screen. From Phichit, from Celestino, from Chris… With Victor’s permission, Yakov had orchestrated one “candid” image of Victor leaving the hospital, which must’ve made its way to the press. Better to give them a little than have them snooping and find details they shouldn’t, Yakov always said, and Yuuri has to admit he hopes the press takes the scraps and doesn’t find the full story. Victor doesn’t need the details of his trauma plastered across tabloids.

Yuuri sighs and powers off his phone, tossing it onto a loveseat off to the side. 

Victor, perhaps a little jerkily as he gets used to the new weight, brings the top of his foot to Yuuri’s cheek and strokes it with a shaky laugh.

“Sexy,” Yuuri laughs, kissing the translucent skin, kissing the artificially shiny nail of Victor’s big toe. 

“Must be a side effect of the medicine,” Victor comments, knee falling to the side invitingly. His head lolls against the pillow, exposing his long, luscious neck. “You look so lovely, Yuuri.”

“You look lovely, too,” Yuuri smiles.

“Even though my face is all puffy from the anesthetic?” Victor pouts.

“Especially because of that,” Yuuri says.

Victor bites his lip and scoots his leg just a little bit further out, murmuring, almost shy, “Yuuri, I want…”

Yuuri smiles and kisses a soft line down Victor’s foot, lips lingering over his ankle. “We’ve had lots of sex, but we’ve never had post surgery sex.”

Victor’s grin falters just a little bit. 

“A post surgery blowjob?” Yuuri offers, eyes crinkling with warmth and fondness. “Tell me what you want, darling.” 

Victor smiles, eyes impossibly wide and blue and vulnerable. “That sounds nice,” he whispers, hands faltering over the waistband of his sweatpants, the ones he’d worn because they were comfortable for surgery.

“I’ll take care of it,” Yuuri murmurs against Victor’s foot, clasping Victor’s hands gently. “Let me take care of you.”

Victor nods, taking a deep breath, and relaxes into their cushions. 

Yuuri’s touches are feather-soft, his lips warm and wet, and he peels down the fabric of Victor’s sweatpants with utmost tenderness. Victor is still soft, his eyes half-lidded and following Yuuri’s movements with interest. 

Yuuri licks up the length of his cock teasingly, just the barest touch. 

Victor lets out a breath, sinking into the soft pillows, and his head falls back lazily. His cock stirs, and Yuuri smiles against it as he takes it all into his mouth. It tastes just like he remembers, every fold of skin familiar, and Yuuri sucks in the hollows of his cheeks as his tongue swirls around the tip. 

“Hah,” Victor breathes, squirming to lower his sweatpants further. “Yuuri,  _ Yuuri _ -” 

“Mm,” Yuuri hums, sending the vibrations through Victor’s cock. Victor is growing hard in his mouth, and he takes a moment to pull himself off with a pop and press a kiss to the tip. He remembers the first time he took Victor in his mouth - then, the hesitancy, the gentle touch of his lips had been out of shyness. Now, Yuuri wants Victor to feel comfortable in his skin again, so he’ll be soft, and gentle, and whatever Victor needs to enjoy this.

“It feels,” Victor stammers, “It feels-”

Yuuri takes him into his mouth again with a hum, hands fisting around the base Victor grows. Victor throws his head back against the couch, panting, a familiar flush creeping down his clothed chest. This close, Yuuri can see the faint silver scar wrapped around Victor’s thigh, and he runs his thumb along it as he continues to suck.

Victor stiffens. “Wait,” he says, “Wait, stop-”

Yuuri pulls off immediately, a string of saliva dripping down his chin. Victor pants, head back and focused on the back wall, fists clenching and unclenching.

“Vitya?” Yuuri asks with caution, reaching up to cup Victor’s cheek and meet his gaze. “Vitya, are you alright?”

Victor’s gaze is very far away, but he focuses as Yuuri’s eyes meet his, and he jerks forward to kiss Yuuri furiously. Yuuri yelps, the taste of Victor still heavy on his tongue. Victor’s lips move against his and Victor’s tongue runs along the roof of his mouth, and Yuuri decides he’ll let Victor do this now and ask questions later, if it makes him feel better.

After a moment, Victor pulls back, breathing a bit slower, steadier. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yuuri asks, picking nervously at the hem of his shirt. “Was it because I - Because I touched,” his voice sinks to a whisper, “Your scar?”

Victor blinks and shakes his head, uncertainly. “I couldn’t see you,” he says. “I couldn’t, I think - I need to  _ see _ you. I didn’t want to look down at my legs, so I looked back at the wall, and I couldn’t…” 

He trails off, biting his lip. 

“Oh,” Yuuri sighs. “Oh. I can - I mean, how about this?”

He leans forward until he’s directly over Victor, his shadow dark across the couch, his hand sliding tentatively down the curve of Victor’s thigh. His thumb reaches out, tentatively, his gaze locked with Victor’s, and he strokes Victor’s softening cock. 

A flash of fear brightens Victor’s blue eyes.

“No,” he whispers, harsh and guttural, “No, Yuuri-”

He pushes up with his hands to get Yuuri off of him, but Yuuri is already retreating, a flash of worry and hurt on his face. 

“It’s just me,” Yuuri whispers.

“I know,” Victor says, ruffling his hair in frustration. “I  _ know _ \- fuck, but, the light from behind made you all shadowy and you were over top of me, like you wanted to stop me from getting away, and I got so-” He lets out a groan and buries his face in his hands.

“Vitya,” Yuuri soothes, rubbing gentle circles into his shoulder.

“And now I’ve ruined the - the mood, and I wanted to do this, I really want to, Yuuri-”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri says, pulling Victor into his arms. “It’s alright. Breathe with me. Remember those exercises you always used to do with me before competitions? In for four - good, good.” He kisses Victor’s forehead. “Hold for seven. Now, out for eight. I’ll do the rest with you.” 

Victor breathes, rhythmically. Yuuri breathes with him, hand splayed over Victor’s heart. In his mind, he goes back to cold ice rinks, Victor’s hands around his shoulders, telling him  _ in through your nose _ -

“I really wanted to,” Victor whispers, once the exercise is over. “I really… I want to. I just don’t know how I can.”

“We can stop now,” Yuuri says, “Or we can keep trying. Would you - would you want to try with you on top of me?”

Victor takes one last deep breath and nods, hesitantly. “If I still can’t,” he mumbles into Yuuri’s skin, “We should stop for today. Okay?”

“Okay,” Yuuri nods. “Okay. Tell me what you need.”

Yuuri scoots back onto the couch, Victor still pressed into his chest, and Victor leans over him nervously. Their hips press together, Victor between Yuuri’s legs, and Victor lets out a soft hum as he presses his ear to Yuuri’s chest, soothed by the soft thump-thump of Yuuri’s heart. 

“Is this alright?” Yuuri asks, softly. 

Victor bites his lip and pulls back to look Yuuri in the eye. He presses his hips forward, just enough for the barest friction, and Yuuri gasps. Tentatively, encouraged by Yuuri’s response and the lust burning in Yuuri’s brown eyes, he reaches between his legs to stroke himself. A bright, radiating warmth pools in his stomach, and he smiles, softly, releasing himself to rub his palm against the outside of Yuuri’s pants.

“Do you want my help?” Yuuri asks, breathlessly, eyes locked on Victor’s flushed cheeks, the parted pink of his lips.

“Yes,” Victor breathes, Yuuri hardening beneath him. Yuuri takes hold of Victor’s cock as Victor slips his fingers below the waistline of Yuuri’s pants. 

“Is this okay?” Yuuri asks, and asks again as he wriggles his pants down and they press their lengths together.

“Yes,” Victor whispers, relief shimmering in his eyes as Yuuri wraps his hands around Victor’s hands, “It’s good, Yuuri, it’s good. ”

* * *

They start out like this:

Yuuri absolutely cannot be, physically, on top of Victor. Whether Victor is on top or they’re on their sides is not particularly important, except for whatever one of them wants in a given moment. 

Victor needs to be able to see Yuuri’s face. He needs it, still, to ground himself - the faces of his abusers are so shadowy an indistinct that any question of who he’s with sends him into a panic. 

Penetrative sex is completely off the table, even Victor being inside Yuuri. Some days, when Victor is feeling brave, he’ll let Yuuri suck him off - but he never comes in Yuuri’s mouth. They need to finish with Victor looking at Yuuri, but not looking down at his legs, where the silver-fine line of the surgery scar wraps around his thighs and shines in the darkness.

The drugs they’d used complicated things, because the drugs made him - not _like_ it, not really, but react to it like he did. Under their influence, he was docile, slavish, always crying out _yes,_ _yes_ like a well-trained animal, so even just enjoying sex isn’t a guarantee he won’t flash back during. He can tell Yuuri to stop, though - if they’d tried this earlier, Victor isn’t sure his tongue would work well enough to voice his distress, and Yuuri would have no way of knowing he needed to pause.

“I’m sorry,” Victor stammers, as the list of things he can’t do - filled with kinks and positions that filled some of his steamiest nights with Yuuri - grows and grows, “I know - it’s not supposed to be like this, have so many rules-” 

“It’s okay,” Yuuri soothes him, “It’s okay.” 

“You’re really okay with just handjobs?” Victor prods, sullenly.

Yuuri winces. He wishes he could soothe away all of Victor’s worries at his sexual inadequacy, but it’s not about sex, not really - the look in his eyes when they need to pause is the same as when he wakes up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, or when he jolts and hides behind Yuuri at a rattling noise behind him while they take their walks. It’s the look of frustration because he  _ wants _ to live his life without fear but he  _ just can’t _ . Not yet, anyway.

“When I was seventeen,” Yuuri says, tapping his chin, “I constantly fantasized about giving you handjobs. Just handjobs.”

“Yuuri,” Victor laughs, despite himself. “How naughty.”

“Mm,” Yuuri hums, a smile playing on his lips. He nestles into Victor’s lap, curled up on the couch. “Feeling up to one now?”

Victor blinks, pen falling from his grip, and shudders pleasantly. “I am,” he whispers, pressing his lips to Yuuri’s.

* * *

 

“You’re going to start competing soon,” Victor mumbles into Yuuri’s shoulder. 

“I am,” Yuuri responds. “Do you want to start coaching again? Do you feel up to it?”

Victor shrugs, half-heartedly. “I just, when you do, and if I don’t…”

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m going to be by myself here.”

Yuuri blinks. “Oh,” he says, brushing Victor’s bangs from his forehead. “Oh. I mean, you can always come with me, if you want. No one would mind if Victor Nikiforov was at an ice rink.”

“We haven’t,” Victor’s lips purse, like he’s looking for the words but can’t quite grasp them. “We haven’t spent more than a few moments apart since I got back from the hospital.”

Yuuri frowns. “You’re right, I mean, but we always spent a lot of time together. Even, I mean, I always thought it was hard, being apart for competitions, and you’ve been gone so long-” 

Victor winces. Yuuri kisses his forehead apologetically - he forgets how much Victor hates being reminded of how many years have passed. For Yuuri, he says it because he’s so relieved that after three long years they’re together. Victor simply can’t take it that way.

“I don’t know how I’ll handle being alone,” Victor admits, with a slight flush of shame. 

Yuuri kisses him again. “Do you want to try it?”

“I don’t want to leave the house,” Victor blurts out, the note of fear clear and ringing in his tone. He groans immediately after the words leave his lips and buries his head in Yuuri’s chest. 

“Okay,” Yuuri soothes, “Okay. I can do it - a quick walk, maybe, with Makka?”

Victor pauses for a second and nods, tentatively. “That could work. We can - at least try it.” 

It’s still brilliantly sunny out when Yuuri takes his walk, Makkachin’s leash firm in his grip. The air is just slightly crisp, spring blooming slowly outside their windows. Victor tries to hand Yuuri the big butcher’s knife in the kitchen - just to be safe. He’s strangely pushy - Yuuri thinks it might be a joke at first, but Victor’s insistence only barely wavers when Yuuri points out that him walking around with a massive knife is incredibly illegal.

It should be easy, Yuuri thinks. He’s taken Makkachin on walks alone before, but when the apartment door shuts behind him with an ominous finality - Yuuri’s heart lurches in his chest. The hallway is so empty. 

If Victor is okay, though, that’s what matters. Yuuri gulps, missing the warmth of Victor’s hand in his, and makes his way out of the building. 

How is Victor doing, Yuuri wonders, worrying his lip nervously. He looks around, pausing just in case Victor comes down behind him. They’d done this to see if Victor could handle being home alone, but as he walks down the block, he thinks-

Yuuri’s phone rings. It’s Victor - calling on the landline from inside the apartment. Yuuri answers in a heartbeat.

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, “Yuuri, I think - please come home.”

“Okay,” Yuuri responds, heart rate spiking, “Okay. Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Victor stammers, “Yes, I just need you back.” 

Yuuri is sure he looks like a maniac, running the entire block back with a massive poodle and tapping his foot impatiently as he waits for the elevator. Secretly, he’s glad Victor called him back - he hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to be apart, but apart was-

“I lasted about five minutes,” Victor says, miserably, pulling Yuuri into a hug. “I just, I couldn’t - what if something happened to you…”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri mumbles into Victor’s shoulder. “I-”

He’s not sure how to finish that thought. It was so much harder than he thought, being without Victor.  _ Does this really matter _ , he thinks,  _ Victor can come to practice, and to my competitions, and it’s always been hard without him… _

“I don’t want someone to steal you away,” Victor whispers, like he’s ashamed of it. “Steal you away like he did to me, in the middle of the street, gun to my head-” 

_ Oh Vitya _ , Yuuri things, sadly. He wraps Victor tighter in his arms. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Yuuri murmurs.

* * *

 

“I knew you two were codependent before, but this is on a whole 'nother level.”

The sound of the shower is a steady rush in the background. At least Victor showers with the door closed, now - before, he found the silence and steam suffocating. Even before that, Yuuri needed to shower with him or he’d think himself into a panic. Things are getting  _ better,  _  Yuuri reminds himself. 

“Mari,” Yuuri whines. “Please, be kind. He’s been through so much.” 

“I know,” Mari sighs, “I know. I can’t… I can’t imagine what it’s like.”

“He’s frustrated he’s not getting better faster,” Yuuri says. “I keep telling him it’s okay, that I don’t mind, but I know he’s upset about it. It’s only been - he’s only been back three months, it takes time…” 

“Hm,” Mari ponders, “Do I remember someone else starting to see a psychiatrist and needing to be told that exact same thing?”

“It’s not the same,” Yuuri bites out, harsher than he means to. “I needed - my solution was that I needed prescription anxiety medication and to talk to someone once a month. He’s - he needs so much more than that. We’ve upped his therapy sessions to twice a week, he’s on antidepressants  _ and _ anti-anxiety meds, I don’t…” He bites his lip as tears begin to bead at the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, squirt, you okay?” Mari asks, all dry sarcasm gone and replaced by genuine concern.

Yuuri bites back a curse - he hates crying in front of people, he hates letting his family know how much he’s hurting, as though if they know they’ll somehow feel like they’ve wasted their time and money in supporting him.

“I tell him this won’t last forever,” Yuuri whispers. “But I’m worried he’s already losing hope.” 

“He’s never been in therapy before, right?” Mari asks, softly. 

“No,” Yuuri says. “No. I think he’s having trouble adjusting - from nothing at all to going so often.” 

“He’s going though, right? He’s not complaining?”

“No,” Yuuri says, “He’s not. He goes every time and I sit in the waiting room with a magazine.”

“That’s good,” Mari frowns. “I wish I could give you more advice, I really do. Just, you know, you don’t have to deal with this all by yourself.”

“Mm,” Yuuri hums, noncommittally. 

“Anyway, we finally booked our flight. Okaasan and I are coming up in two weeks. So you’ll have to share your husband at least a little bit.”

“That sounds inappropriate,” Yuuri mumbles, and Mari laughs a little. 

“Hold out until then, okay? Remember we love you.”

“Love you too, Mari,” Yuuri smiles into the receiver as he hangs up. 

The shower turns off, and Yuuri waits a few moments for the door to open, watching as Victor comes out, ruffling his wet hair with a towel. 

“Hey,” Yuuri murmurs.

“Hey yourself,” Victor blushes. Little droplets of water run down his pale neck and into his t-shirt. 

“You’re showering alone,” Yuuri says, softly.

Victor blinks. For a moment, his face lights up, pleased at his progress. It’s gone far too soon, though.

“Good,” He mumbles, “I’m turning back into a normal human being.” 

“You  _ are _ a normal human being,” Yuuri says, cupping Victor’s cheek and forcing him to meet his gaze. “Your problem is your parameters for progress are, you know, learning how to do a quad axel - of course anything less is going to feel like nothing.”

“I almost had it, too,” Victor sniffs, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. 

“What do you think,” Yuuri says, kissing Victor softly. “Want to add this to your ‘wall of accomplishments?’”

“That stupid thing,” Victor grumbles, “I don’t know why my therapist things writing all my boring little achievements is going to make me feel better. Like I need a reminder I was barely functioning for so long.”

All the same, though, Victor takes the scented marker and taps it against his chin as he stares at the little whiteboard hanging right by their bed - and adds  _ consistently showering alone _ right underneath  _ let Yuuri and Makkachin walk by themselves around the lake in the park, while I sat on a bench nearby and read _ .

* * *

 

A few days later, the postman drops off a huge package outside their door. Victor  _ beams _ as he carries it into the apartment, eyes bright and shining like before - only the slight mania in them stops Yuuri from seeing this as a good sign. 

Victor’s hands shake as he tears away the tape and padding, and Yuuri looks inside the box to see packages of portable pepper spray, pocket knives, and a book on self defense. 

Yuuri thinks of his anxiety, sometimes. Every gold medal hanging on his wall, ever accolade, the few precious photos of himself standing on the podium above Victor fucking Nikiforov, gold metal gleaming, and he still wakes in cold sweats before competitions wondering when the world will realize he’s faked his way to the top.

“Once my legs are all settled, I’m thinking we can sign up for a self-defense class,” Victor babbles. “I think this’ll help, I think we should be okay to be apart, so long as I know your safe - oh, and there’s this safety app, I’ll need to get a new phone-”

Yuuri thinks of the packaged weapons in the box, thinks of the doorman who stands guard day and night, thinks of the police officers who trail the two of them on their walks when Victor asks nicely. There’s nothing to worry about. They’re protected, Yuuri knows.

Does Victor?

“Vitya,” Yuuri cuts him off, quiet but firm. “Will this help you feel safe again?” 

Victor inhales, sharply. He whispers, so quiet Yuuri can barely hear him, “I hope so.”

* * *

 

Victor sits awake in the middle of the night, watching videos of Yuuri. His routines these past few years have been  _ gorgeous _ , melancholy and grief cutting across the ice in powerful strokes of his skates. It brings tears to his eyes watching them, watching the awful bleak expressions on Yuuri’s lovely face in the press conferences afterwards. 

A snippet from a special,  _ What Happened to Victor Nikiforov? _ Pops up in Victor’s recommended video feed and, ill-advisedly, he clicks on it.

“Yuuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov’s relationship, lovingly referred to as Victuuri, has been one of figure skating’s most beloved love stories. The worlds’ hearts broke two years ago when the living legend himself, Victor Nikiforov, disappeared without a trace. Since then, Yuuri Katsuki has remained the faithful husband, working tirelessly with St. Petersburg police and following up on leads that have long since gone cold. Today we examine some of the evidence and attempt to answer the question still in the back of every Russian’s mind: what happened to Victor Nikiforov?”

There’s one, according to the date just a few months after Victor had been kidnapped, of Yuuri sitting with his head in his hands during some kind of press conference with the St. Petersburg chief of police. 

The questions go on normally for some time, until a reporter asks, “Most kidnappings that don’t get solved in the first three days go completely cold. Do you think, at this point, there’s still any hope of finding him?”

The shattered look on Yuuri’s face  _ breaks _ him. 

“Why - why would you ask me that?” Comes Yuuri’s voice, cracked and hysterical, “Why would you say that to me-”

Yakov is ushering Yuuri away from the table, growling, “No more comments at this time-”

“Oh, baby - don’t watch that.”

Victor snaps the laptop shut and whirls around to see Yuuri behind him, tears welling up in his eyes. Victor is crying too, he can feel the wet tracks down his face, and suddenly it’s so awfully painful to breathe. 

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers. “It’s so horrible, I - at least I can’t remember it-”

“Don’t,” Yuuri murmurs, firm but soft. “I don’t want to think about that, okay, my darling? You’re  _ here. _ How about I wipe your tears, okay?”

Victor nods, biting his lip and stifling a little sob. 

Yuuri presses the tissue to Victor’s cheeks, holds it to Victor’s nose and says, “Blow.”

Victor does. Then, with a whimper, he wraps his arms around Yuuri’s middle and buries his face in Yuuri’s soft, off-season belly. 

“Let’s not think of that, okay?” Yuuri whispers into Victor’s hair. “Remember you’re in the present. You’re in our apartment.” 

As if to remind him, Makkachin comes shuffling out of their room, whining after waking up alone. 

“It was so hard for you,” Victor whispers. Then, he repeats, “I can’t - I can’t remember it-”

Victor shudders, violently.

Yuuri kisses the top of his head.

“That’s not true,” Victor says. “I do remember - god, I remember longing for you,  _ aching for you _ , begging for them to help me get back to you, and they just laughed. Laughed, hurt me, h-he took my legs-”

“Vitya,” Yuuri says, soft but firm. “You’re safe now. You’re safe with me. Can you look at me?”

Victor takes a deep breath and lets Yuuri lift his chin, gently, until their eyes meet. Makkachin paws and Victor’s knees, and he scratches behind her ears to ground himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor whispers. “I woke you.”

“I woke up on my own,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. “It’s cold in bed without you. Will you come back?”

“Did it remind you of when I was gone?” Victor asks, before he can stop himself. It sounds so cruel when it leaves his tongue, but he hadn’t meant it that way, just - it helps, somehow, to know he’s not alone in his trauma.

Yuuri pauses for a moment, then bites his lip and nods, harsh and quick, not meeting Victor’s gaze. 

“It’s hard,” Victor says, soft and trembling. “So many little things that should be normal but they just, without warning, suddenly I’m not here anymore, in my head-”

“I know,” Yuuri says with a sob, “I know.”

“I thought people would start thinking, you know, once I got the surgery on my legs - they’d think I was totally better,” Victor muses. “But I think I’m actually the only one who thinks that. That I should be better.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs. “You’re moving at your own pace, there’s no right way to go about this.”

Victor hums, nestling deeper into Yuuri’s stomach. Makkachin has fallen asleep, nose pressed against Victor’s thigh.

Finally, Yuuri asks, “Please come back to bed with me?”

Victor nods, the fabric of Yuuri’s t-shirt soft against his cheek. It’s gotten better - now, he can often soothe himself back into sleep. 

The stress of the upcoming press conference has triggered what few memories he has to haunt him at night, and the insensitivity of the reporters who spoke to Yuuri makes his gut churn and roil. 

Makkachin’s nose prods against the back of Victor’s leg as he walks back to bed - sends a spike of wonderful sensation up the artificial nerve endings. He’s home.  _ Home _ .

Yuuri, beautiful, anxious Yuuri, who looked each grief-stricken day right in the face and told it to stand down, no matter how many people told him to give up hope. Victor thinks of how furious his kidnapper will be when he sees them together again, but mostly he thinks that if he can take just an ounce of Yuuri’s strength, he can get through this.

* * *

 

The cameras flash, the reporters chatter. It’s so shockingly familiar that it nearly gives Victor whiplash, and he presses Yuuri’s fingers to his lips to ground himself. A resounding chorus of coos echoes in the room, and Victor can already imagine the headlines. Press conferences were never particularly fun, but this one just feels like an unpleasant doctor’s appointment, something like a colonoscopy - he can only hope it’ll be painless and over soon.

“How are you?” Murmurs Yuuri softly, in Japanese. Victor knows from experience that won’t do too much, since Japanese-speaking fans have assiduously translated nearly every on-screen aside and interview into a myriad languages, but it’ll stop the surrounding reporters from making comments, at least. 

“I’m okay,” Victor responds, “I hope this’ll be over soon, so I can go back home and be with you.”

“Mm,” Yuuri smiles, “You still feeling up for a trip to the gym, later?”

“You need to get back in shape,” Victor says, in lieu of answering, “I just hope Yakov’s right about it being safe from prying eyes.” 

Yakov is there, sitting on the panel, to field particularly tough questions. He puts his firm hand on Victor’s back, comforting - Victor knows Yakov would love to give him a hug, but the less the press sees of Victor’s distress, the better. 

They ask him all sorts of questions, and Victor gives quick, clipped, bland answers. Shares the bare minimum. 

“It appears the man who took me was an obsessive fan,” Victor says, monotone. “He was angry about my relationship with Yuuri.”

Shocked gasps. Now  _ there’s _ a headline, Victor thinks.

Victor is somewhat embarrassed by his hardened cynicism with regards to the press. Certainly they all want to sell a story, but there are reporters who have followed him from his junior years that he knows by name and who have genuinely cared about his health and wellbeing over the years. 

“Do you have any comments regarding the recent press release of you leaving the central St. Petersburg hospital?”

Victor nods, carefully reigning in his emotions. “Yes. The man who took me didn’t leave me unscathed, unfortunately. It’s been difficult for me - for both of us - to work through some of the damage.” 

Yuuri’s arms wrap around him, and Victor rests his head on Yuuri’s shoulder. 

“Yuuri,” A reporter asks, “You must feel some vindication, that in the end you found him.” 

“I’m so happy,” Yuuri says, a rare moment of pure emotional honesty. Victor’s heart swells in his chest, feeling fit to burst from how much he loves his husband. “I’m so happy he came back to me.”

“It’s hard,” Victor admits, choked up, “But I know Yuuri is here for me. I know we’ll get through this, together.”

* * *

 

It’s over soon after that. Within an hour, Victor sees the headline pop up,  _ An Athlete’s Worst Nightmare! The Harrowing Tale of Victor Nikiforov’s Kidnapping - and Return. _ They picked a lovely picture of him and Yuuri holding each other at the press conference - but Victor turns off his phone without skimming the piece. 

They’ve given out a few details - just enough so that hungry reporters don’t go scavenging for more. They say his legs were “badly damaged” and required surgery, which isn’t technically a lie. 

Yuuri looks pensive when they get home, and for a moment Victor finds himself transported back to any other day from three years ago, Yuuri pensive and picking at his cuticles in that habit he has when he’s stressed.

“What’s wrong, darling?” 

“Nothing, Vitya.”

Ah. If only that wasn’t so familiar, too.

Except now, Victor finds himself at a loss. He’s had his own share of emotional issues, but he was always there for Yuuri, his rock, a sturdy source of support on his worst days. Victor’s heart seizes, painfully, at his fragility. Yuuri is cutting him out because he knows Victor can’t be there for him anymore-

“You’ve had a long day, and I don’t want to make you feel worse,” Yuuri continues. “So please, don’t worry about me.”

Victor bites his lip. 

“I always worry about you,” he murmurs, holding onto this moment of normalcy with the thinnest of strings, “I’m your husband, and I hate to see you upset.” 

Yuuri’s breath catches. He nestles into Victor’s arms as Victor sits them both on the couch, wearing their exercise clothes. They’re so close to heading to the gym, to getting back in shape for the upcoming season.

“I hate press conferences,” Yuuri admits, “More than I did before. They’d always ask questions about you, and for so long there was nothing I could say. You were just… Gone.” 

“And this reminded you of that?”

“They all do, now,” Yuuri says. “Even the easy ones where all they want to know is what my skincare secrets are. I can’t stand them, Vitya.”

“I’m sorry, Yuuri,” Victor says. “I didn’t know - we could have announced online, or-”

“No,” Yuuri hisses, fierce. “No. I need the world to see this, to see how much I love you.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s just… Something I need to work through. As always.”

“I’ll try my best to help you,” Victor whispers, still feeling small, weak. 

“You being here helps me,” Yuuri says, kissing Victor softly. “Don’t worry about me, okay?”

“Okay,” Victor says, though he feels a little niggling doubt that he doesn’t quite understand. “I love you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiles, pressed against Victor’s lips, and for a moment Victor allows himself the satisfaction of being  _ better _ , just a little. Just enough to enjoy this moment with the man he loves. 

“I love you too, Vitya.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha looks like fandom has moved on from that doujin, but! I still gotta finish this thing! Getting close to the end. Maybe 2 more chapters? 2-3? We'll seeeeeeee
> 
> The first bit of this chapter is pretty angsty but then it goes back to mostly fluff. Thanks for bein' patient with me!
> 
> Also, so, I've gotten some people asking for a link to the doujin - I'm sorry, but I don't have it! I read it when it was still on myreadingmanga, but I mean, it's gotta be somewhere online, right? Nothing ever disappears from the internet. Sorry I can't be of more help, though! 
> 
> I lov comments thank you for all the lovely ones on the other chapters

“It always feels like one step forward, two steps back,” Yuuri had grumbled once after a particularly bad anxiety attack. Victor thinks of that often, now. Some days it’s a comfort, knowing that  _ it’s okay _ that his progress won’t be linear, others-

Victor hasn’t been having many nightmares recently. They’ve been able to be apart for quick trips to the corner store, and Victor has a cheerful, healthy glow to his skin and hair and spends less time curled up under blankets on the couch or bed. The watch less TV, spend more time outside and active, which is good because news outlets love to pick up candids of the newly-reunited couple giggling together over a pair of protein shakes. 

When Yuuri leaves the house, Victor hands him a pocket knife. Victor hands him pepper spray. Victor says,  _ text me the minute you make it to the store _ . Victor pleads with Yuuri to send him pictures of Makkachin on their walks because they make him feel better.

It’s a lot, Yuuri thinks. And he doesn’t always remember to take the knife, the pepper spray, the… Everything. Victor is always there, though, perched right by Yuuri’s side to remind him. Texting him, reminding him to send photos. He’s talking about this with his therapist, Yuuri knows, but… 

Is it enough that they can spend this minimal amount of time apart, if this is how they have to accomplish it? 

Then, one day, Victor is towelling off his silky hair in the bathroom as Yuuri prepares to make a quick trip to the homegoods store - their only set of tongs snapped straight in two earlier in the week, and they’ve put off replacing it for far too long. 

Yuuri leaves the apartment with his phone, but he just - forgets. He forgets the weapons, or doesn’t think they’re necessary, and calls out a quick, “I’ll be back in ten,” to Victor in the bathroom. He scratches Makkachin behind the ears as he closes the door.

He thinks nothing of it, and then, when he arrives home with a fresh pair of tongs-

Panic.

“Yuuri,” Victor gasps, dropping his new phone onto the hardwood floor. Makkachin pads up behind him, whining. “Yuuri, oh god, I was so worried-”

Yuuri blinks. 

“I called, I called, I-”

Yuuri pulls out his phone shakily and notes - four missed calls, a series of increasingly frantic texts. It was on silent, he realizes, he hadn’t even noticed-

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri breathes, “I was just, it was just ten minutes.”

“What if something had happened to you?” Victor bursts out, face flushed with anger, “You didn’t take… They’re still on the counter, the pepper spray, everything!”

Makkachin whimpers, backing away at Victor’s tone.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri blinks, guilty and bewildered and steadily realizing the gravity of the situation he caused. “I’m fine, Vitya…”

“ _ But what if you weren’t _ ?” Victor shouts. 

Yuuri flinches back. His heart is pounding, his hands starting to shake. 

“He’s still out there, he could be in St. Petersburg right now,” Victor continues, waving his hands emphatically. “I was so worried, it’s not safe, Yuuri, it’s not safe, we need to be prepared-”

“ _ I’m sorry _ ,” Yuuri cries, clapping his hands over his ears. “I’m sorry, I…”

He lets out a choked sob, wiping at his eyes frantically. 

There’s a long, painful pause while Yuuri cries, the tongs still clasped in his grip.

Victor’s voice is horrified, close to tears himself, as he whispers, “Yuuri?” 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri sobs again. He feels awful, immeasurably guilty, and it washes over him in sick waves. He’s supposed to be there for Victor, to help him, and now he’s fucked it up and made Victor upset and-

“I didn’t mean it,” Victor says, voice high and desperate, “I didn’t… Yuuri, don’t cry, I’m sorry-”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Yuuri whimpers, not looking at Victor. His breaths are tight, his whole body shaking.

“I,” Victor chokes out a sob, “I, oh god, I-”

Yuuri hears, rather than sees, Victor flee the room. He hears the door shut, then… Nothing. Nothing save the slow pad of Makkachin’s paws as she re-emerges from behind the couch. Yuuri collapses onto it, clutching a pillow and those  _ stupid tongs _ to his chest as he cries.

He’s supposed to be Victor’s source of support, and all he’s done is make Victor sad and scared and upset. Now Victor is probably crying in their room and Yuuri is too  _ stupid and weak _ to go to him, because he’s upset, because he’s guilty, because this is so so fucking hard and all he wants is Victor to stop hurting but now  _ he’s the one who’s hurting him- _

Makkachin whines and prods her wet, doggy nose against Yuuri’s knee.

“Go away,” Yuuri mumbles, nudging her towards their bedroom door. “Go to Vitya, he’s the one who needs you.”

Makkachin boofs, reproachfully, and clambers up on the couch next to Yuuri. 

“Victor needs me,” Yuuri wails into the pillow, using it to wipe his dripping nose while Makkachin rests her head against his thigh, “I need to go, but I can’t-”

Years of therapy ground him, just a little. He takes a long, hiccup-y breath, and things tumble into place in his mind. Victor needs him, but he’ll be no good to Victor until he calms down. 

He just needs to breathe, just breathe, just-

Breathe.

* * *

 

The apartment is scarily quiet once Yuuri stops crying. His foot tap-tap-taps against the hardwood floor, and his eyes flit to their bedroom door, just down the hall, still closed. It’s always been Victor approaching Yuuri after a fight, always Victor who could ground him and calm him. 

It’s something they’ll need to work on together, managing Yuuri’s anxiety and Victor’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Bile rises in Yuuri’s throat as he approaches the door, and the knocks ring out overly loud in the silence, like fireworks. Gunshots.

Nothing. Victor doesn’t respond. 

Yuuri takes a deep breath, unsure if that’s a sign Victor wants to be left alone, afraid Victor will go off on him again - and even partially fearing that Victor, in his panic, may have hurt himself.

He decides being yelled at is the best of the two worst-case scenarios, and he turns the unlocked doorknob.

Victor is on the bed, clutching a pillow to his chest, his back to the door. He’s motionless, soundless - his hair lies limp over his cheeks and the sharp outline of his jaw. 

“Vitya,” Yuuri calls, softly, a thick lump in his throat.

Victor doesn’t respond, but his shoulders hunch, and he buries his face deeper into the cushion.

“Do you, um,” Yuuri stammers, tears welling up again, “Do you want me to leave?”

Victor shrugs. Yuuri hears his hitched breath, sees the tension in his back. His toes clench and unclench, a reflexive stress habit he’s developed post-surgery. 

Yuuri sighs. He has no idea what to  _ do _ . Any other time, he’d curl up with Victor on the bed and hold him until the troubles went away, but now that they’re fighting-

It’s barely even a fight, it was just that Victor was worried, and scared, and he’s so scared all the time because of what happens, and Yuuri should have known-

Cold pools in his gut. He feels so useless - and in a strange fit of anxiety-override, his brain hisses at him  _ oh, fuck it, just go cuddle him anyway _ .

Yuuri climbs onto the bed. Victor is under the blanket, so Yuuri stays on top, stiff and just-barely touching. He feels his own breath against the back of Victor’s neck, and Victor shudders, relaxing the barest fraction. 

Taking a deep breath, Yuuri places his hand on Victor’s shoulder. Victor doesn’t shake him off, so Yuuri moves his hand to Victor’s chest, gripping his shirt right over his frantically pounding heart, and holds him close.

Victor’s breath hitches, his shoulders shake, and he begins to sob into the pillow in loud, angry bursts muffled by the fabric. He cries for a long while, and Yuuri holds him not saying a word.

Finally, Yuuri murmurs against the shell of Victor’s ear, “Talk to me?”

Victor laughs, bitterly. “You won’t understand.”

Yuuri winces. His hand grips tighter, his heart beats faster. “Maybe,” he responds, sounding braver than he feels, “Talk to me anyway?” 

Victor doesn’t answer right away, but his hand slides beneath the pillow to grip Yuuri’s. 

After a long, slow moment of deliberation, he says, defeatedly, “I feel like a fucking idiot.” 

Yuuri says, “I can definitely understand feeling like a fucking idiot.” 

Victor freezes, and for a moment Yuuri panics, wondering why he said that instead of letting Victor explain-

Then, Victor barks out a short laugh, and the tension in the room snaps like a stretched rubberband. Suddenly, Yuuri can breathe again, and he presses his body closer to Victor’s desperate to feel his warmth and soft skin and  _ presence _ . 

“I was so scared,” Victor whispers, voice shaking, “I was so - then, I thought about it, and I felt so  _ stupid _ , you were just at the corner store you’ve gone to dozens of times…”

“S’not stupid,” Yuuri mumbles into the nape of Victor’s neck.

“I hate how scared I am all the time,” Victor sobs, “I hate it,  _ I hate it _ .”

Yuuri hums, soothingly, running his thumb along Victor’s shoulder. “What can I do to help you? What do you need?”

“I don’t know,” Victor wails, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “I don’t, fuck-”

“Breathe,” Yuuri says, urgently, at the hitched rasp muffled by the pillow, gripping Victor’s white-knuckled fist on the pillow. “Breathe, baby. Focus on my hand. Focus on my voice. I’m here.”

“So  _ stupid _ -”

“None of that,” Yuuri murmurs, soft but firm. “None of that. Just keep breathing, okay?”

Victor nods, shakily. Yuuri grips him like he’s dying, memorizes the tense, stiff muscles of his shoulder, feels his breath against their clenched fists as Victor takes long breaths - shallow at first, but deepening slowly, the sound rattling in the still room. 

When Victor finally relaxes, limbs flopping down and pillow falling to the floor, he’s silent. Yuuri can see a pale, embarrassed flush on his cheeks. He looks angry, frustrated, eyes storming with a mixture of emotions. 

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says, “It’s okay.”

“S’not okay,” Victor mumbles, dejected. “And it feels like it might… Might not ever be okay again.” 

Yuuri pauses.  _ It’s temporary _ , he wants to say.  _ Think of how much progress you’ve made already. Going out alone, coming to the gym with me, smiling your beautiful smile even more.  _

What he says is, “Thank you for telling me that.” 

Victor snorts. “That’s what Svetlana says. Whenever I share something with her.” 

“Hah,” Yuuri laughs. “My therapist used to say that to me, too. Does it make you feel better about talking?” 

Victor shrugs. His cheeks are still flushed in embarrassment. 

“I just don’t feel good,” he whispers. 

Yuuri hums, going back to rubbing Victor’s shoulder. “Can you look at me?”

Victor stiffens. He shakes his head, looking ashamed. 

Yuuri frowns. “Can you tell me what you need?” 

Victor sighs. “I don’t know,” he says, soft and ashamed, “I don’t - what do you need on bad days?”

Yuuri frowns. He thinks, long and hard, about what he needs on his worst days - days when his body is a lead weight and his mind is galloping along with every awful thing he’s ever said or done or has been said to him. Days when Victor wasn’t there, and he’d wake up in the morning, reaching out for his cold, empty spot, and Yakov would sigh as Yuuri showed up at the rink hours late and ask,  _ what do you need _ ?

“Time,” Yuuri admits, then winces at the cruelty of his admission. “Some days… That’s all you need. Just a little time.”

Victor pauses for a moment, then he whispers, softly, “ _ Fuck _ .”

“I know,” Yuuri soothes, trying to nuzzle closer even though they’re already pressed tight together. “I know. I’ll be here with you though, for as long as you need.” 

Yuuri stifles the little voice that snaps  _ you should be able to help him. You’re failing him because you didn’t make him feel better _ . There are bad days, sometimes, and sometimes there’s nothing to do but let them pass. It doesn’t feel good, though. It’s not good for either of them.

Victor stays lying under the covers for a long while, just breathing, gripping Yuuri’s hand with all his strength.

* * *

 

Victor grunts, gasps his way through another long, rigorous workout. Yuuri breathes beside him, chest heaving as he forces his way through step-ups and grapevines on the gym floor. 

The atmosphere is heavy, thick like fog, even with the way Yuuri smiles at him, all soft and sweet like Makkachin’s fur after a long, cold day. It’s very, very frustrating, he thinks, the constant turmoil of his body and mind. His legs are so heavy, making it more difficult for him to catch up even after three years - three fucking years! - of captivity. 

Worst, though, are the moments he thinks he’s feeling better - only to feel the tell-tale pound of his heart and shake of his hands to remind him how much he’s changed. In a fit of silliness, it reminds him of how he’d watch Yuuri pay video games, how the music would change with a monster approaching, how Yuuri would tense as he rapidly looked around the dark room searching, searching, searching-

Only, the monster doesn’t exist, can’t hurt him. 

Or can he?

“Mm,” Yuuri mumbles, pulling him out of his thoughts as he drapes his sweaty body over Victor’s, “You’re looking so strong, so healthy. Cheeks are so pink.”

He pokes at the hardened muscles of Victor’s abs, and Victor giggles, ticklish. 

“Your love handles are gone,” Victor responds. He nuzzles into Yuuri’s no longer soft belly, pouting. “I miss them. Miss how squishy you are.”

“Victor,” Yuuri whines, but he doesn’t push Victor away. He kisses the crook of Victor’s elbow, where the track marks are fading slowly. He’s been doing that a lot, recently, kissing him there and at the silver scar around his thighs. 

In a way, Victor has been trying to make up for his outburst earlier. Trying to give Yuuri his space, or take up space when Yuuri wants it. Trying, always trying. 

God, his legs ache. It feels good, the ache of a good workout, but it’s hard to remember why he feels so heavy all the time. Everything is so much harder, and he hates it. If only they could go right back to the way things were, if only this  _ thing _ didn’t hang around Victor every waking moment. 

He wants to go walk along the beach with Yuuri, strangers passing by, not a care in the world save the warmth of Yuuri’s hand in his. He wants to stare out into the night, to prepare himself for bed without the need to meditate and ground himself beforehand. He wants to go to the grocery store to pick up some chocolates for his lovely husband without fearing he’ll be taken again.

He wants all the things that were taken from him.

Yuuri tosses him a granola bar, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

Life goes on, Victor thinks, despite his occasional breakdowns. Yuuri still loves him. The feeling is warm, soft like Yuuri’s smile or his lovely brown eyes. 

“Mm, is this a new flavor?”

Yuuri nods, biting into his own post-workout snack bar. “Mhm. Apple crisp, with a full serving of vegetables.”

Victor takes a deep gulp of water, some spilling down the sides and onto his shirt. Yuuri snorts as Victor wipes it away, and Victor can’t help but smile back. A few days ago, Victor was curled up in bed, unable to get up. Today, his legs ripple with strength and his heart soars as he thinks of new routines for Yuuri in his head. 

Five months ago, he wouldn’t ever have thought this possible. Wouldn’t even have remembered that it was possible.

* * *

 

“Do you want to come with me, to pick Okaasan and Mari up from the airport?” 

Victor grimaces. On the one hand, he wants to see them as soon as possible, on the other-

“I want to let you go by yourself,” Victor says, slowly. “So I can, so we can make that step. Keep up the progress.” 

Yuuri nods, uncertainly, but he says, “You know… Not everything needs to be, you know. Focused. Targeted. Your family is in town, you don’t need to deny this because you think, um, your progress…” 

Victor takes his hand and kisses him on the crook of his elbow, and Yuuri starts in surprise before smiling, softly. 

“They miss you, Vitya,” Yuuri mumbles, cheeks pink.

“You’re right,” Victor says. “You’re right. Let’s go together to get them.”

* * *

 

“Vicchan!” Hiroko Katsuki cries, wrapping her chubby arms around Victor’s waist and nuzzling into his stomach, eyes full of happy tears. Victor tears up as well, smelling the scent of hot cooking oil embedded in her clothes and hair from decades running the onsen. He hugs her back, arms covered to the wrists so his family doesn’t see the track marks, the other little scars and bits and bites.

Mari rubs Victor’s back in the airport, Yuuri shifting his weight from right foot to left as he watches his mother hold Victor, a lump in his throat. 

When they pull apart, finally, Hiroko cups Victor’s cheek, wiping his tears away.

“Here,” she coos, pulling a packet of tissues from her shirt pocket, “Don’t cry, Vicchan.” 

Victor grips the tissue packet like it’s a precious heirloom, taking a tissue even as he sniffles and wiping at his nose. Yuuri takes his hand and kisses it.

“I’m sorry,” Victor begins, “I know it’s been months, I-”

“Hey,” Mari glares at him, “Don’t apologize. We’re here for you, okay? No feeling bad, not when you’re family is in town.”

Victor nods, dutifully, one hand in Yuuri’s grip and one on Hiroko’s back. He sniffles once more.

Mari’s smile doesn’t quite mask the concern clear on her face, but she shakes her head and huffs, “You’re worse than Yuuri, you know?”

Victor laughs, watery. Yuuri pecks him on the cheek. 

“Let’s head home, hm?” he smiles.

* * *

 

“I was thinking of katsudon for dinner,” Hiroko comments, lightly, on the drive home. 

Victor visibly brightens from his spot in the driver's seat.

“Aw,” Yuuri whines, “But I’m training for the season. So fattening.”

“I don’t have to train,” Victor teases. “I’m retired.”

“Well, then I guess it’ll just be for Vicchan,” Hiroko chirps. Mari muffles a snort behind her hand and Yuuri’s miserable whine of  _ okaasan! _

“You know,” Victor says, seriously. “As your coach, I won’t stop you from eating katsudon with us. It’s just one meal. And I…” He grows somber, taking a deep breath before saying. “I realize now, how important it is to be able to enjoy food with your family. I don’t want to deprive you of that.” 

The entire car goes silent. Hiroko’s face, so similar to Yuuri’s, crumples into a heartbroken frown - Mari looks at Victor desperately, not sure what to say. Yuuri takes Victor’s hand in the front seat, kissing the knuckles softly. 

“Of course,” Victor jokes, a little strained, “You’ll have to run laps tomorrow-”

Mari reaches over and puts her hand on his shoulder.

“I suppose,” Yuuri says, “One meal won’t ruin all my training. Especially if my coach makes me run laps afterwards, the brute.”

“Mm, what a sadist he is,” Victor nods, smiling, and the mood improves again. “At least ten kilometers, in under thirty minutes.”

Yuuri whines. Mari pulls her hand back with a final comforting squeeze as they drive along the streets of St. Petersburg.

* * *

 

“We’re going out,” Yuuri says, pecking Victor on the cheek. “To pick up a few things. Okaasan, you’ll take good care of Vitya, right?”

“Of course,” Hiroko coos, already pulling Victor to the couch to catch up. 

“Ah,” Victor winces. “Wait-”

Yuuri and Mari pause, and Victor freezes for a long moment. Then, cheeks coloring in shame, he picks up the pepper spray by the side table. His head bows as he passes it over, almost apologetically, and Yuuri stands on his tiptoes to kiss Victor’s forehead as he takes it.

Mari, to her credit, does not change her expression. Hiroko takes Victor’s hand again, distracting him with something cute Makkachin is doing as she snoozes in the corner. 

“Hey,” Mari says as they pass a park on the way to the Asian grocery store. “Hey. Sit with me for a sec?”

Yuuri blinks, but he nods, curtly, and they make their way to a wooden bench in the park. Behind them, children play on the playground, laughing and shrieking, their mothers and fathers sitting nearby and chattering in cheerful Russian. The skating season is looming, closer than either he or Victor had anticipated, and the promise of that last Grand Prix gold…

“Is Victor alright?” Mari says.

Yuuri just stares at her. To her credit, she looks a little sheepish, so Yuuri says, “He’s doing as well as can be expected,” then, softer, “He’s doing his best.”

Mari nods, clearly still troubled. 

“I don’t like seeing him like this,” Mari admits. “Even just from the drive to the airport… I wish there was something I could do.”

“I do too,” Yuri sighs. “For myself, I mean, I wish there was something I could do. Why did this happen to him, Mari, to us?” 

Mari winces. “I wish I knew. I can’t… The  _ demon _ that took him, still out there while Victor suffers.” Her voice goes quiet. “Do you think he’s hiding?”

Yuuri shrugs. “I don’t know. There’s no sign of him, in St. Petersburg or in the town in Japan.”

“Yuuri,” Mari says, purposely not looking at him. “Are  _ you _ okay?” 

Yuuri starts in shock. Then, without warning, his throat constricts and his breath hitches and tears bead at the corners of his eyes-

“Why did this happen?” Yuuri sobs, wiping at his eyes furiously. “We were so  _ happy _ . Why would someone want to take that from us? And now Victor is so badly hurt, won’t ever be the same, and I don’t know what I can  _ do _ -” 

“Oh, Yuuri,” Mari soothes, wringing her hands in front of her. They’ve never been much for physical contact, but Yuuri sniffles, stubbornly, and buries his face in her arm. She pats him on the back awkwardly, but Yuuri doesn’t mind. Nothing about these past few months has been normal. “I’m sure you’re doing your best, too.”

“I’m trying,” Yuuri sighs, calming down just enough to stop crying. “It’s not enough. And I know, I  _ know _ it just takes time, especially after what happened, but I feel so…”

He cuts off, groaning in frustration. 

Mari bites her lip, continuing to rub his back. 

“You know,” she says, softly, “You don’t need to go through this alone. We’re here for you. We want to help you, both of you.”

“I can’t talk about what he went through,” Yuuri admits. “Not just… Not just because I don’t think he wants me to. Just thinking about it - it’s too much.”

Mari and Hiroko don’t know the intimate details of Victor’s kidnapping like Yuuri does, have never seen the scars on his chest and throat where the man slashed him up, trying to kill him. Haven’t seen the track marks, heard him pleading at night for him, for  _ them _ , to stop, to get off of him. 

The media has been kept on a blessedly short leash with the whole affair. Now, they just run the same tabloids over and over again - Yuuri and Victor reunited, Yuuri and Victor spotted on a walk, some comments about how drawn Victor looks. It’s bad enough without the public seeing Victor’s trauma splattered on a magazine page. 

Only Yuuri and Yakov really know. No one else has been let in.

“I don’t mean that,” Mari says. Her expression is strained, as though this is difficult for her to say. “I just… You’re not good at asking for help, okay?”

“What? I-”

“ _ Yuuri _ .” 

Yuuri sighs. “I know,” he admits, “I know. I just… We don’t want to - I know Victor already feels bad about how much I dote on him. Makes him feel - I guess it, you know, makes him feel weak.” Yuuri closes his eyes. “I can relate to that. Not wanting to bother anyone.”

“You’re our  _ family _ ,” Mari says, exasperated, “You’re not bothering us - goodness, Yuuri. My sweet, stupid baby brother.” She groans and holds him tighter, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh a little bit.

“We can talk about it,” Yuuri responds into her arm. “Maybe another day? I want to know what Victor thinks, first?”

“Okay,” Mari says. “Okay. Just - it doesn’t have to be anything big. You can call us when you’re upset. That’s what I want you to know. Okay?”

Yuuri nods, wiping his eyes. “Okay.”

Mari nods back, uncertainly. “How about we get what we need for dinner, hm? Everything feels better with a full belly.”

* * *

 

When they arrive back at the apartment, Yuuri isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the sight before him. Hiroko has Victor wrapped up in a blanket like a burrito, leaning against her while she combs through his silver hair with her fingers. 

Victor chatters on about something - the last episode of this TV show Yuuri and Victor are trying to keep up with in between training, it seems. When he registers Yuuri at the door, he brightens, his mouth quirks into a heart-shaped smile - he seems so wonderfully happy, in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. 

Yuuri wipes at his eyes, suddenly wet, and he wraps his arms around Victor on the couch. Hiroko hugs him, Mari hugs all three - Yuuri loves his home in their St. Petersburg apartment, suddenly so full of life, like it was before Victor was taken from him. 

He can smell cooking oil from Hiroko, cigarettes clinging to Mari’s hair, and Victor’s cologne mixed in with the intimate, familiar scent of him - his family, missing only Minako and Toshiya, running their bustling business back in Japan. 

Victor’s stomach rumbles from deep within the blankets wrapped around him, and they all break apart, laughing. 

Hiroko pats his cheek, gently, and says, “Should I get dinner ready?”

* * *

 

Victor is tired first - he usually is, these days - so Yuuri helps his mother and sister get settled in the guest bedrooms. When Yuuri was living here alone, the impossibly big apartment seemed a cavern. 

Now, it’s full of people. Full of familiar faces and new, happy memories, like Victor full and fat from his first bowl of katsudon in three years. Victor, and Yuuri, and Mari, and Hiroko laughing over slow glasses of sake and wine until the long day and jetlag caught up to all of them.

Yuuri climbs into bed, quiet in case Victor is sleeping. Victor shifts as Yuuri settles in so he’s facing him, looking pensive, studying the lines of Yuuri’s face.

“Hey,” he murmurs, running his thumb along Yuuri’s cheekbone. 

Yuuri leans forward to kiss him, mouth minty and cool from his toothpaste, and responds, “Hey yourself.”

Victor smiles, cheeks pink, serene and content. “I’m glad nee-san and okaasan are here.” 

“I am too,” Yuuri sighs. “You remember the first time you called Mari that? And she nearly cried?”

Victor laughs. “I do.”

The lapse into comfortable silence. Victor kisses Yuuri, slow and sure, his tongue lapping out tentatively against Yuuri’s mouth. 

“This is the happiest I’ve seen you in such a long time,” Yuuri whispers. 

Victor’s eyes widen. “Yes,” he breathes, sounding so relieved, “Yes, I - being with my family, I can be distracted, for just a moment.” 

Yuuri sighs, burying his face in Victor’s neck, and he notes the faint outline of a scar pressed against his artery.

“I wish you could feel like this all the time,” Yuuri mumbles into his soft skin.

Victor swallows, and Yuuri kisses his adam’s apple. 

“I don’t know if I’ll feel like this tomorrow,” Victor admits. “But I’m happy with you, too. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Yuuri.” 

“I want to see your smile,” Yuuri says, flushing, “I want to help you smile.”

“You do, Yuuri.”

“You have such a pretty smile,” Yuuri mumbles, eyes closing as he listens to the steady beat of Victor’s heart. “No one’s gonna take it away from me.” 

Victor’s lips against the top of his head are the last thing Yuuri feels before sleep claims him.

* * *

 

“Mm, morning, slowpoke,” Victor pecks Yuuri on the cheek as Yuuri stumbles into the kitchen early next morning, after their morning run. He’s good, feeling good - he’s at a place where some mornings, he’s alright with not running with Yuuri, since Yuuri both can and needs to run longer distances for his training. 

“Morning,” Yuuri gasps, “I can’t believe you were serious about the ten kilometers.” 

“Your time was great,” Victor coos, checking his stopwatch. “Shower, love, I’ve got coffee on. What time do you think our family will be awake?”

Makkachin comes padding into the kitchen, tongue lolling out, and licks Victor’s ankle.

Yuuri laughs, “Here’s one, at least.”

Victor’s good mood is infectious, and Yuuri comes out of the shower feeling wonderful. His mood brightens even more when he sees Mari and Hiroko at the table, chattering happily with Victor over coffee and tea. 

Mari looks horrified, and for a moment Yuuri worries, until he hears Victor say, “Ah, my favorite jam to put in tea has to be strawberry.”

“You mix jam with tea?” Mari whispers, “Green tea, too? Green tea with strawberry jam?”

Yuuri’s phone buzzes. Yakov. He frowns, picking up the phone.

“Yuuri,” comes Yakov’s voice, “I tried calling Victor, but he didn’t pick up.”

“Ah,” Yuuri stammers, ducking out of sight before Victor notices the call, “My mom and sister are in town, sorry. He’s with them.” 

“Are you at home now? I have something I need to tell you.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, faintly, “Yeah. We’re here, Yakov, what-”

But Yakov has already hung up.

Yuuri steps into the kitchen, trembling, and Victor’s smile freezes the minute he sees him.

“Yuuri?” he asks, voice small.

Yuuri shakes his head, vigorously, trying to calm the nerves that prickle along his body. He takes a deep breath and says, “Yakov’s on his way. He has something to tell us.”

* * *

 

“Do you want something to drink, Yakov?” Yuuri asks when Yakov shows up on their doorstep, not thirty minutes later. “Tea? Water?”

“With jam?” Mari tries to joke, in thickly accented English. It falls very flat.

Yakov doesn’t bother to take off his shoes at the door, and Yuuri winces when they make contact with the nice carpet. It distracts him from his fear, from the barely concealed  _ something _ simmering behind Yakov’s eternally gruff expression.

They sit on the couch, Yuuri and Victor holding each other, Mari and Hiroko on either side, while Yakov makes himself comfortable on an armchair across the coffee table. 

“Yakov,” Victor whispers, face white and fingers trembling in Yuuri’s grip. “What’s wrong? Are we in danger? Are-”

“No,” Yakov cuts him off, firmly. “I’ll get straight to the point. They know what happened to Isao Honda,” he turns to Mari and Hiroko, “the man who kidnapped Victor.”

Hiroko claps her hand over her mouth, and Victor tenses, eyes wide and blue as dinner plates. 

Yakov barks out a laugh, and all of them jolt in shock. He pulls out a file folder and slaps it down on the coffee table, glaring at it.

“They found his body this morning,” Yakov says, staring Victor straight in the eye, “Victor, he’s dead.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we have a final chapter count! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I know some of you were disappointed the kidnapper didn't suffer more hahaha, hopefully you'll find this chapter satisfying (and don't see it as a cop-out :P).

Victor has pored over what he would do if he ever saw his kidnapper – Isao Honda, not that he knew that when he was being kept drugged and docile in his house – ever again. He's steeled himself for what testifying against him might look like, for searching his face and scrambling to remember any of it.

It was cruel, all of it was cruel – the rapes, the public humiliation, chopping off his _fucking legs_ , but what haunts him the most always comes back to the drug he used. It wasn't enough for him to torture Victor, to toss him into a public bathroom with a bag over his head for anyone to abuse – he had to make Victor _want_ it. Or, at least pretend to.

He sees himself like an outside voyeur, the prick of a needle into the bend of his elbow, sees himself falling onto Honda slavishly, a feverish desire in his eyes. Even now, when he's with Yuuri, hot and hard and wanting, he wonders if it isn't some after-effect of the drug, because who could ever possibly want sex again after what he's been through?

“Open the file,” Yakov says, arms crossed over his chest in triumph.

“Is it graphic?” Yuuri frets. Victor feels a twinge of affection – looking out both for him and for his family.

“No,” Yakov reassures him.

They open the file. In it is a photo of Isao Honda. Victor searches the photo, trying to place those round cheeks, those mean eyes. There are little flashes of something – he must've stared up at that face every night for the past three years, but it's taking so long for his mind to put the pieces back together.

It takes him a moment for him to realize that Yuuri is reading.

“...found in a suburb of St. Petersburg, right by the highway. He was unrecognizable, but when the police station attempted to run dental records, the St. Petersburg chief of police got a notification that a man matching Isao Honda's records had been found.”

Yuuri blinks. Mari and Hiroko stare on, blankly, concern written on their faces.

“He's dead,” Victor whispers to them, in Japanese. “The man who took me.”

Mari reacts first. She lets out a woop of glee and punches her fist into the air. Hiroko is more reserved, patting Victor's thigh comfortingly. He leans against her, and she pulls him into her arms.

Yakov's expression falters a little bit – clearly he'd expected Victor to react more like Mari. Victor doesn't know what his emotions are doing, doesn't know if he's happy or relieved or just sick to his stomach thinking about this man.

“Yakov,” he whispers, because he feels like he needs to, “I... Thank you for telling me.”

There's no sense of safety that washes over him, just a sense of unease. It's over – but it feels like it'll never be over.

“You're safe, Victor,” Yakov says, firmly.

Victor swallows and nods. “I know,” he says. “I know. It's just... Taking my mind a little while to catch up.”

Yakov's smile crinkles sympathetically. He grunts and pulls something out of his bag – a bottle of champagne. “Was getting this a little too presumptuous?”

Victor can't stifle the snort of laughter. “We'd be happy to share some champagne with you,” he says, in English. “At... Nine in the morning.”

Yakov grins. Yuuri kisses him on the cheek, and Victor remembers how loved he is.

* * *

 

Yuuri pulls Yakov to the side, later. Victor is smiling softly, distracted by Mari and Hiroko, who are content to poke and prod at his red cheeks. Hiroko likes Victor especially because, while Yuuri was an affectionate kid, he was reticent with physical contact as he got older, at least until Victor came along. Victor, not so – without physical affection he starts whining, cutely, childishly until someone hugs him, and Hiroko is very happy to be that person.

It's the same, even after. Victor just wants to be held.

“What happened to him, Yakov?” Yuuri whispers.

Yakov grimaces. “I'll tell you, but please, don't panic.”

Yuuri's heartbeat speeds up. “Don't panic?”

Yakov sighs. “That was the wrong thing to say to you. I just... You should know, the Pakhan of one of St. Petersburg's most prominent crime families absolutely adores Vitya.”

“The _mob_ loves Vitya?” Yuuri squeaks, trying hard not to panic, “Is he safe? Yakov, why didn't you tell me before-”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Yakov growls, grabbing his shoulders. “Yuuri. Please, calm down. Do you think it didn't frighten me immensely when the Bratva took an interest in my teenage prodigy?” Yuuri swallows, shaking his head. “I count myself very lucky that the interest was strictly professional. They've been fans, nothing more.”

Yuuri nods, heart rate slowing, somewhat. “So – so what does this have to do with Vitya?”

“So,” Yakov continues, as though it should be obvious, “They're the ones that killed Honda. And according to my contacts, the Yakuza has spent the past few months trying to fix the damage they caused by letting one of their own kidnap Victor. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the other men who hurt Victor start turning up dead.”

Yuuri blows out a breath, amazed. “Wow,” he breathes, “Wow. But... Why did they kill him – Honda, that is? Why deny Victor that bit of closure?”

“Because,” Yakov says, with a bitter smile, “They, like all Victor Nikiforov fans, think they know what's best for him. They just happen to be in a position to, uh, _help_ more than some others.”

Yuuri says, simply, “Oh.”

Yakov closes his eyes, exposing the weary lines of his face. “I'm glad he's dead,” he admits. “I don't want Vitya to think of him ever again.”

Yuuri bites his lip. He looks back at Victor, so happy – a bright, shining light by his mother and sister. Maybe this will be good, Yuuri thinks. Now, Honda isn't even a concept – the limbo of what to do, whether there will be a trial, whether Victor will have to testify when he can barely remember what happened... It's all gone.

He's not so naive to think that it'll all be better from here. Honda's death is a new thing to consider, and Yuuri wants to be careful this next little bit, see what Victor will need from him.

It's hard not to feel a little happy, though, watching his family celebrating, all together again.

“Did it hurt?” Yuuri murmurs.

Yakov blinks. “Hurt?”

“Was it quick, how they killed him?” Yuuri isn’t looking at Yakov. His gaze is burning, staring off into the distance.

Yakov’s lips press into a thin line. “The body was so badly damaged – burned – postmortem that we can’t tell what happened to him before. Cause of death was strangulation.”

Yuuri’s eyes water, and he bites his lip, asking in a very small voice, “Is it... Is it bad that I kind of hope it wasn’t? Quick, that is.”

Yakov closes his eyes. “No, I... No. I thought the same thing. And it makes me so angry because I know, I _know_ , it doesn’t matter how he died, because will it really make Victor feel better?”

“It makes _me_ feel better,” Yuuri mumbles, stubborn. His expression is pained. “I know what you mean, though.”

“Yuuri,” Yakov says, suddenly, “Yuuri, I just remembered – oh, how could I forget. The police in Japan found this just days before they found his body. It was in his house, in a drawer.”

Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out-

Yuuri’s eyes fill with tears as Yakov drops the wedding ring into his hand. The gold has lost some of its luster, and there’s a dark brown splotch that Yuuri doesn’t want to think about, but the little half-snowflake is still clear as day on the inside of the band.

Out of nowhere, Yuuri feels a shock of pure, unbridled rage, and he has the clarity of mind to be surprised at its intensity. His nails bite into his palms, and his voice shakes as he asks, “He fucking _kept_ it?”

Yakov nods, expression unreadable. “I don’t know why,” he says. Then, perhaps noting Yuuri’s anger, continues quickly, “When are you going to tell him?”

Yuuri shakes his head, the anger dissipating as quickly as it came. “You know what, Yakov? I’m going to tell him right now.”

He turns on his heel, marching back into the room with Victor and his family.

“Victor,” Yuuri breathes, holding up the gold ring in a trembling palm as Victor turns to look at him.

For a moment, Victor’s gaze is questioning – then he notices the ring, and his eyes go wide, so wide and blue. Tears drip down his cheeks, and he covers his mouth with his hands, and Yuuri can’t help the tears that fall from his eyes as well.

Yuuri is already on one knee, holding up the ring to glint in the kitchen lights, before he remembers that he already put his own ring on Victor’s finger. He coughs, a little embarrassed, sliding the second ring onto Victor’s outstretched hand. Victor giggles, wet and sniffly, and pulls Yuuri up into a deep kiss, not mentioning the little mistake.

When they pull apart, everyone’s eyes are a little misty, even Yakov, who jokes, “Hah – good thing I brought the champagne?”

Everybody laughs, Victor loudest of all, wiping his eyes and dripping nose before burying his face in Yuuri’s neck, latching on as tightly as he can.

As Yakov pours everyone another round, Victor surreptitiously slips the ring from his finger onto Yuuri’s, then brings their hands together to kiss the glinting gold. His hands shake as he takes another sip of champagne, but his expression is calm and clear.

They have big plans to show Mari and Hiroko around St. Petersburg – have big plans to skype with Toshiya and Minako later today. Victor takes a picture of his and Yuuri’s hands for Instagram – no one knows that the ring got taken, so to the world this will just be a reaffirmation of their love.

Yuuri’s heart feels full to the brim, overflowing with joy and sadness and love. He’s happy, he’s so, so happy-

And the man who hurt Victor is _dead_.

* * *

 

“I think... I’ve had some time to process,” Victor whispers, later, while Mari and Hiroko are distracted by the sights and sounds of the city. “I feel... Relief? I think?”

Yuuri smiles, a little embarrassed by how relieved that makes him feel. Victor is taking this as a positive, not something more that will set him off.

“I was too ashamed to tell you,” Victor continues, “But I was scared. I mean, you know I just... get scared, but I was scared of him. Not even that he’d come and take me again, just, I was so scared of him. Of a face that I couldn’t even remember.”

Yuuri takes his hand, kisses the knuckles, kissing the ring. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmurs.

Victor smiles, kissing Yuuri softly. “Now he’s gone... I don’t have to be afraid of him anymore. I’ll probably still... still get scared, sometimes, but not of him.”

“I’m happy,” Yuuri says, holding Victor close. “I’m happy you feel that way.”

“I’m glad,” Victor bites his lip, looking away nervously, voice dropping to a whisper, “Yuuri, I’m glad he’s dead. Is that horrible of me?”

Yuuri shakes his head, firm. “I’m glad too,” he admits. “He hurt you. I want...” He shakes his head, closing his eyes. “Whatever you felt about him, I’d support you. But I’m glad too. After so many awful, awful years, it feels like finally the universe has given us something.”

 _Or, well, the Russian mafia_ , Yuuri thinks.

“I don’t forgive him,” Victor says, shortly. “I’ve heard it helps, to forgive, but I don’t. I can’t. I _won’t_.” He meets Yuuri’s gaze, eyes burning. “Maybe... Maybe some day I’ll be able to, but right now...”

Yuuri says, slowly, “If you think it’ll help you, I’ll support how you feel. But, Victor, if you never forgive him, that’ll be okay, too.” He drops his gaze. “I don’t think I ever will.”

Victor nods, brows furrowed. Yuuri kisses the wrinkle between them, thinking of how, when they get home, he’s going to kiss him all over.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Mari laughs. “Come over and help us translate this.”

Yuuri and Victor smile, going to rejoin their family.

* * *

 

Eventually, Victor’s legs regain the strength he needs to keep up with Yuuri on their shorter runs. He reminds himself that he never had the stamina that Yuuri did, anyway.

They always get home at the same time, though, and cook a healthy breakfast together while waiting for Mari and Hiroko to wake for another long day of touristing, with or without them.

Eventually, Mari and Hiroko need to return to Japan, to the onsen. Victor cries a lot as they pack up to leave, which makes them very worried, which Victor feels bad about. Mari, sharing a glance with Yuuri, offers to cancel her flight – Victor reassures her that she doesn’t need to.

He tries to explain that he’s fine, he just cries a lot more now in general, but it doesn’t really help.

It does, however, make sure he spends the slow hours before they leave for the airport wrapped up in everyone’s arms, so it’s not all bad. And he loves the bright, happy smiles on his family’s faces as he tells them how wonderful it was that they finally got to visit his home city.

Victor has such fond memories of relaxing in the hot springs, of the delicious home cooking, of how Japan sometimes felt more like home to him than St. Petersburg.

His memories have changed, though, warped – now, mixed in with the good are little snippets of warbled conversation, hearing and understanding the things they called him, staring Isao Honda down as the drugs stopped working and snapping at him, in Japanese, that he’d never love him like he loved Yuuri-

And the consequences thereof.

Victor knows, rationally, that Japan is one of the safest countries in the world, and he hates that the place he considers his second home now feels frightening, dangerous.

It’s Yuuri’s home. It’s where his family lives.

One day, it’ll be Victor’s home again, he knows – but for now all he can do is talk to his therapist and try to make the scared feelings go away, just like he tries whenever Yuuri leaves the house by himself.

Despite the ever-present thrum of strange, roiling emotions, Victor settles in to bed that night more relaxed than he’s felt in a long time. He hadn’t realized how much stress he’d been under – how much stress they’d both been under – until someone else came to take a little bit of it away.

Yuuri cards his fingers through Victor’s hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You doing okay?” he murmurs, breath hot against Victor’s temple.

“Doing wonderful,” Victor responds, and he means it. “I miss them, but I’m so happy they were here. I’m thinking... Once this season is over, I want to go visit them.”

Yuuri’s face splits into a wide, relieved smile. Victor feels a twinge of guilt at how all of this must be making Yuuri feel, a twinge of frustration that Yuuri won’t talk to him about it – but he tamps that down, trying to just be happy in the moment.

“I want to put your next gold medal up in your room,” Victor says, completely sincere, “Right next to your old poster of me.”

Yuuri barks out a laugh, caught off guard. “I’d rather put it near the real thing,” he says, placing his hand on Victor’s chest, over his heart. He can’t stop staring at the ring, fitting as perfectly on his finger as he remembers.

Victor smiles. “Are you ready to be back on the ice?”

Yuuri nods, determined. He’s _old_ , now. Very old for the sport. He wants so badly to win the last Grand Prix gold – he promised Victor five, he _promised_ , and four is good but it’s not what he swore to Victor all those years ago.

“Are you ready to coach me again?” Yuuri asks.

Victor nods. His eyes sparkle. “I won’t go easy on you, you know?” he teases.

Yuuri grins. “I’m ready for it. I’m ready for anything, so long as you’re by my side.”

He grabs Victor’s hand, feels Victor run his thumb over the ring, and settles in to sleep.

* * *

 

The scent of the ice rink washes over Victor, familiar as Yuuri’s cologne, familiar as Makkachin’s fur. The heavy, wet ice, sharp in his nostrils, the clink and scratch of blades across the surface, the clear, crisp white – Victor closes his eyes and takes it all in, takes it all in with Yuuri pressed firmly against his side.

“Hey, old man,” Yuri snaps, from across the ice, “First thing you do when you get back here is start necking in front of everyone? Tch.”

“Oh, hi Yurio,” Yuuri calls, pretending he had just noticed him, “Yakov says you’ve been slacking. You ready to get serious now that your biggest competition is back?”

Victor loves this, loves the competitive gleam in Yuuri’s gaze as he stares down Yuri. Loves when Yuuri’s confidence glows around him – and how some of the younger folks around the rink stare at the Yuuri-Yuri friendly rivalry with awe.

“Like hell you’re my biggest competition,” Yuri laughs, “You’re _thirty_.”

“And now we’re both being shown up by eighteen year olds,” Yuuri sighs, privately, to Victor, “Weird to think that Yurio is one of the older people in the sport at the moment, isn’t it?”

Victor blows out a breath, shaking his head. He’s been looking up the routines of last years competition champions – Worlds, Europeans, Four Continents, every competition leading up to the Grand Prix Final, and it was very painful to note how many of the names were completely unfamiliar.

They lace up their skates, Victor relishing in the familiarity of the blades, of the tight-laced boot. It feels like coming home, putting his skates on again. His skates feel more familiar than his legs do, sometimes.

“For the first of the Grand Prix circuit, I’m thinking we should re-use one of your old routines,” Victor says, tapping his chin. He isn’t wearing gloves, as was always his habit once Yuuri put the ring on his finger all those years ago. “Since we’re starting late. While you perfect that, we’ll work on something new. I already have some of the jumps laid out – I’ve noticed that quad-quad combos are the go-to points getter these days.”

Yuuri nods, nodding to Yuri, who is launching into a quad-flip quad-toe combo.

Victor sighs. “Still no quad axels? How disappointing.” His eyes glitter. “I assume you’ve improved a little, in three years.”

“More than a little,” Yuuri sniffs, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you – I want to use Stravinsky’s _Firebird Suite_ for my free program. I got… I got my friend, you know, from Detroit? I’ve been talking to her about writing my short program music. I want to tell a story, from short to free.”

Victor nods, determined. “Let me help you tell it.”

Yuuri’s eyes go a little misty, and he says, “I want to tell a story of triumph – tragedy in the short program, lost love. Then, from the ashes, the firebird. I want my theme to be love, like it was all those years ago, love and victory.”

Victor swallows the lump in his throat. He whispers, “I think I can help you with that.”

Yuuri comes close to him, presses their foreheads together. “I’m going to win with this program. My fifth Grand Prix gold. _We’ll_ win.”

Victor nods. He’s nervous – so nervous. Out of practice, unable to showcase the jumps like he used to. He’s desperately researching, now, seeing what’s new in their sport and twisting it to surprise the audience. It’s daunting – but once, he made a competitive comeback halfway through the season.

They begin, and Victor marvels at how smooth Yuuri’s jumps have become, how each ripple of muscle and set of his jaw as he flies into an effortless quad-lutz screams _watch me, don’t look away from me_.

Victor launches into his jumps nervously, half to showcase some technical trick, half because he’s not sure he still _can_. He tumbles on what’s supposed to be a quad, artificial legs so, so heavy. When he tries again, all he can manage are a few doubles, one triple salchow, and his brain shouts in frustration as he pants through the step sequence Yuuri flows through like ribbons in the breeze.

If Yuuri heard him being negative about his current ability, Victor knows what he’d say. He’d say, _Victor, you were off-ice with no exercise for three years, you had your legs amputated, you got prosthetics denser and heavier than your legs, the fact that you can still jump at all shows how much of a living legend you are_.

Victor can see that, see his admiration and awe as Victor manages a triple flip, finally. He lands heavy, barely managing to catch his balance, but he stays steady.

Yuuri decides to start the season with a more technically challenging version of his first routines after Victor disappeared, to add to the triumphant narrative of the season. The music is somber, an excerpt from Schoenberg’s _Verklärte Nacht_ and an even darker pop song that must’ve come out that year.

It-

It _hurts,_ watching them. Victor feels the pain in how Yuuri moves, sees Yuuri’s grief splayed out over the ice, winces at the wrenching, hopeless ending, the free-skate pose a curled-in version of their ending lift from the _Stammi Vicino_ exhibition skate, a lover alone.

When Yuuri finishes, the whole rink has stopped to watch, and Yuuri skates over into Victor’s outstretched arms. He cries into Victor’s neck, and Victor tries so desperately to blink away his own tears, and they hold each other for a long, long while.

“We don’t have to do that one,” Victor says, softly. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

“I want to,” Yuuri whispers, fierce, “I want… I want you to see it, and to know there are better, happier things on the horizon.”

Victor smiles, wobbly and watery. “I love you, Yuuri.”

“I love you too, Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs.

* * *

 

“Mm,” Victor murmurs after a long few hours of practice. “Bathroom break?”

Yuuri nods, gulping down water.

“Your technical components have improved dramatically,” Victor says, as they walk along the now empty hall, “But you’re still playing your jump entrances safe. I think if we-”

He freezes.

The stall doors stand open, the smell of bleach cloying in his nostrils. It’s quiet, save for the drip-drip of a leaky faucet, and there’s a hand on his wrist, a hand in his hair-

Victor wrenches his hand away, stumbling in terror away from-

Yuuri. Yuuri, who had grabbed his hand in concern, and there’s no hand in his hair, nothing in his mouth. He lets out a low, shaky breath, mouth opening and closing as he tries to explain to Yuuri why he’s panicking.

“They, ah, they used to, in a public bathroom,” Victor stammers, “I hadn’t, didn’t realize this might trigger something, but this is where they’d...”

He trails off, running his fingers through his hair in agitation.

“We can go home,” Yuuri offers.

“I know you want to practice more,” Victor counters, ignoring the slight tremble in his hands. “It’s not… It’s not practical to go home and come back, not...”

“We can anyway,” Yuuri says, firm. “We can do whatever you want.”

“C-can you come into the stall with me?” Victor asks, hating the high, reedy pitch of his voice, hating how the shame seeps into him like the cold of the rink, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry-”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri soothes, “It’s alright. Of course I will.”

Victor knows Yuuri would follow him to the moon and back, that nothing Victor does will ever faze him – it’s the same for Victor, after all – but that doesn’t stop the painful feelings roiling in his stomach as Yuuri clicks the stall door closed behind the both of them.

There’s a strange, staticky feeling in the back of Victor’s throat as they leave the bathroom, Yuuri pressed close to him. Victor remembers the bathroom in Japan, calling Yuuri’s name over and over and over again. He still dreams of it, sometimes, being hurt and calling for Yuuri and feeling the hands closing over his throat – only to wake and realize it’s the blankets wrapped too tight around him, stifling his screams behind his hand.

“Ugh! Don’t tell me you two were in there together,” Yuri sniffs, brushing past Yuuri on his own way in. “At least tell me what stall you used so I can avoid it like the fucking plague.”

Yuri’s anger snaps Victor out of his daze, and he manages a shaky, “Third from the left,” and a coy wink that sends Yuri into a spluttering rage.

If Yuri thinks they were in there fucking, that’s better than the reality, Victor figures. He breathes in the ice rink, the slight hint of Yuuri’s scent, stronger after their strenuous morning practice. Lets the scent ground him, thinks of the days of the week, what year it is.

“Victor...” Yuuri murmurs, uncertainly.

“I’m okay,” he says to Yuuri, kissing his cheek. “I’m… Let’s get back to practice, mm?”

* * *

 

After long, long hours at the ice rink, Victor’s heart feels fit to burst from watching _Verklärte Nacht_ over and over again, feels the familiar leaden heaviness of his legs from the intense workout.

He’s never seen Yuuri so determined, never seen the other skaters so intensely focused on their own routines. In his absence, Yuuri has become the living legend Victor has always known he could be - still capable of winning medals at an age most skaters have retired by, a little like Victor himself.

Victor can’t help but stare at Yuuri’s muscular body in the shower at home after their evening run, how he’s already worked off all the post-season weight gain. He plays out the narrative in his mind, loss to triumph. Being reunited beginning with the slow, gentle french horn in the Firebird Suite, ending in a triumphant burst of brass.

He can’t be the only skater to win routines – or coach winning routines – while working through trauma. Victor’s never thought about it before, but he can’t… Can’t be the only one. It’s nice, in some ways, a return to normalcy amongst all the terror and confusion of the last few months.

Victor watches Yuuri flex his calf, rubbing cooling lotion on the bruises splotched along his feet.

Yuuri’s emotions affect his skating, far more than any other skater Victor knows. He’s going to win gold upon gold this upcoming year, Victor is sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deus ex mafia lol


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINISHED :D :D :D
> 
> hope u liked it and that you find the conclusion satisfying!! if you did, please leave a comment below! i know it's kind of short, but i think i've wrapped up basically everything here? the only think missing is the epilogue where yuuri spits on hondas grave, haha
> 
> thanks for all your support while writing this :D

Victor wonders how long the blessed secrecy can last. Whether it’s an inherent cynicism or something that came from his ordeal, clinging to him and whispering ugly things in his ear when he dared to be happy – its harder and harder to be optimistic.

There are three men from Japan who have been extradited to Russia to stand trial – and a string of disappearances in the prefecture where Victor was found, which he doesn’t want to think about.

When will they all find out? When will his private trauma become public?

Victor feels strange. It was really this, in the end, the constant window into his life, feeling like a mannequin on display in shiny costume, that sapped the love of figure skating from him before he met Yuuri – people he knew and people he didn’t all having a microscope into the most intimately painful parts of him.

It makes Victor’s skin crawl. He’ll walk down the street, grateful for the bitter winter cold because he can bury himself in scarves and hope no one recognizes him, but when they do, Victor feels their eyes long after they’ve left.

They’ll ask for autographs, like normal. For photos of him he doesn’t want to see, though they’ll pop up on instagram sometimes, and he’ll look at the bags under his eyes and translucent white of his skin, like he’s a ghost, and he’ll wonder if they whisper about what happened to him, post theories about it on fan forums or twitter or the like.

Victor wonders what they think, and he’ll never know, and it was never any of their right to know, but he’s a celebrity, so – he’s a public commodity, anyway.

It sits their like an itch under his skin, at practice, at home, an ever-present feeling of something being not quite right. Constantly feeling kind of gross, kind of icky, an unceasing prickle of humiliation.

There aren’t many details, just the bare bones, but even that’s too much. Victor sees headlines about himself, reads them with some strange mix of horror and apathy, saying that he’d been kidnapped and kept hidden by a crazed fan, and bile rises in Victor’s throat.

What can they know? They haven’t been there like Yuuri has, picking up the cracked, bloody pieces, the ugly bits of panic and paranoia and self-loathing, and they think they have a right to talk about what happened to him-

When a blurry camera phone image from Japan appears online – enough to show blood, blood everywhere in the now-empty toilet stall – he claps his hand over his mouth and slams his laptop shut as though he’s been burned. And he feels burned – the image seared on his retinas, and he remembers the mirrors in the bathroom where they found him, watching the pained twitch and jerk of his limbs like an outside observer.

They ask him about it at press conferences when they’re supposed to be discussing Yuuri’s scores, and he demurs with his lips pressed tight around his white teeth. He feels everyone’s eyes on him and the humiliation burns, even with Yuuri’s hand in his under the table, grounding him.

“That’s all we have time for today,” Victor says, as the question persists. They want him to come out with it, with something concrete they can tell their fans, and they’re disappointed that he won’t give them that.

 _It’s my life_ , Victor thinks, bitterly, _Why do you think you deserve to know about it?_

They don’t really know about his legs. Victor still can’t look down at his feet, at the wriggling synthetic toes and rippling muscles along his calf, the bulge of his ankle, and even though he has these prosthetics he still feels phantom pains at night, little shocks through synthetic flesh. The silver line of the scar so small it blends in with the silver hair around it most days.

There are no pictures of him from that short, short time in his life. The few weeks which had seemed to stretch for an eternity while he was living them - wobbling on heavy, slippery prosthetics – now seem to have passed in seconds. The memories, though, clinging to him in the cold of morning – those don’t go so easily.

The press doesn’t know about all of it, certainly not about the rape, though they must suspect. The doctors and nurses and staff all signed privacy and nondisclosure agreements.

Thank goodness they don’t, Victor thinks, hands gripping his hair and eyes burning as he remembers how they looked at him and asked about the man holding him hostage. Asked, does he have a statement for other athletes about how best to handle their obsessive fans.

Yuuri curls around him, and Victor is suddenly in their big, beautiful bathroom in their St. Petersburg apartment. He presses his lips to Victor’s neck, mouths soft sweet nothings against it until Victor stops shaking and his eyes stop burning with unshed tears.

“Talk to me?” Yuuri murmurs.

“I,” Victor gasps, wiping at his eyes and nose messily, “Why do they think they have a right to know? Don’t I deserve some privacy? They think I should be dealing with this right in front of their cameras, for some fucking headline-”

“You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to,” Yuuri soothes.

“I know,” Victor hisses, “I know, but I hate that they think they have a right to me. I d-don’t belong to anyone, okay? _Anyone_.”

“No one,” Yuuri affirms. “You belong to you. Not to them, not to. Ah.”

He cuts off, uncertain.

“Not to Honda,” Victor finishes, dully. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Victor can feel Yuuri’s soft smile against his shoulder.

“We’d always say,” Victor says, uncertainly, “I’m yours. You’re mine. I don’t – I don’t dislike it, but it’s not the same. I want to feel like _yours_ again but the thought of being so owned-”

“Your heart is a gift,” Yuuri whispers. “You get to give it willingly, just like I get to give mine to you. You choose.”

“They shouldn’t keep trying to ask what happened to me,” Victor mumbles. “You know. Everyone.”

“No,” Yuuri agrees, “They shouldn’t.”

Victor swallows, thinking of Yuuri’s words, hearing his heartbeat from behind him. “You still have… Have my love. My heart. You know? You take… take such good care of it. You care about it. Me.”

“And I always will,” Yuuri says, firm. “I love you, Victor.”

Victor turns to kiss him, slowly. “I love you too,” he breathes.

* * *

 

Victor doesn’t recognize any of the men the officer presents in front of him. They look normal, a face Victor could have passed on any Japanese street, not given a second thought.

“I don’t recognize him,” Victor repeats, dully, again and again.

Putting faces to the people who hurt him is strange – before this they were all just an amorphous mass, now they have names, faces, and families. And they still…

This part is being conducted under the utmost secrecy. None of the men who’ve confessed to raping him have said a word to the public, and Victor wonders if someone underground didn’t have something to do with that. Everyone is telling him that no one will hear any part of this that he doesn’t want them to, and yet – there’s a press conference, so the public doesn’t get antsy, and Victor has to figure out what to say if not the truth.

Officer Petrov places another picture of a man in front of him, and Victor is about to respond again that he doesn’t recognize him – when suddenly, there’s a flash of phantom pain, a cigarette burn into his lower back, and the sound of snarling laughter and his own heavy breathing in his ears.

“Yes,” Victor stammers, hands curling into fists on his knees. “Ah. Yes. Him I recognize.”

Petrov nods encouragingly and clicks the on button on the little voice recorder, to be played separately with vocal distortion to the judge and jury.

“Can you tell me what you recognize about him?”

Victor closes his eyes and taps his fingers against the table, thinking to Yuuri’s habit of bouncing his leg when he gets particularly nervous.

“Okay,” he says softly.

* * *

 

In the end, they are all sentenced to jail. Those they caught, at least, who Victor doesn’t dare dream are the only ones who hurt him. The feeling isn’t necessarily good, though it’s certainly not bad.

Victor lies on the couch, their couch, for a long while afterwards. He runs his fingers over his legs, wincing at phantom pains shooting up and down them occasionally. The scar is still there, a soft silver ring, like a seam left unhemmed on a garment.

Yuuri swears he can’t see it, especially in the low light of their apartment, unless he’s pressed up against Victor’s thighs. Then, he stares at it contemplatively, running his thumb along it, nose flat against Victor’s muscle. He kisses it, sometimes, when Victor allows it. Yuuri will peer up at Victor from between his legs, eyes wide and amber brown and so soft, and Victor will nod, hesitantly, and suddenly he’ll feel the electric jolt of Yuuri’s lips over the scar.

It’s not bad, though. It’s not as bad as it was before.

And Yuuri will curl up in his arms afterwards, and Victor will listen to the steady thrum of his heart beneath his chest. He’ll never be tired of the feel of it pulsing against is ear, the taste of it against Yuuri’s neck when he kisses the vein there.

They won’t ever be apart again. Sure, Yuuri may go to the store alone, before dark – neither of them are much for being out alone at night anymore – and maybe Victor will walk around the park with Makkachin, but for the moment neither feel the need to spend time alone.

“I had three years to be alone,” Yuuri says, matter of fact. “I hated it, hated being away from you.”

Victor swallows the lump in his throat and nods.

* * *

 

Victor comes back from a walk one cold winter morning, wiping the sweat from his brow, when he notices something: the pepper spray left on the side table by the door. He pats his pockets and doesn’t feel the little knife there either.

During the walk, he’d felt fine – had felt momentarily free and at peace. There was no fear in that moment, though – though there, at the door, his mind runs him through a dozen worst case scenarios, and his whole body shakes as he thinks of what would have happened if he’d been taken away again.

It’s a complicated mess of emotions, happy and proud and terrified, and Victor slumps against the door and lets himself feel them all.

* * *

 

“Yuuri Katsuki’s score is-”

They sit in the Kiss and Cry at the Grand Prix Final, Yuuri trembling so hard the bench beneath them sha kes.  Yuuri is in second after the short program, just a bit below an up and coming skater from France.

There was a slight wobble on the entrance to a quad lutz, but the quad flip with his arms above his head was both beautiful and technically exquisite. Victor has never done a quad-flip quite like it – as he watched Yuuri fly through the air, he felt his heart soar like they were flying together.

“… A new world record! Yuuri Katsuki is in first, with only one skater left to go-”

He wins.

After everyone has taken the ice and the day is over, Yuuri is in first, tears in his eyes and his fifth Grand Prix gold medal around his neck.

Victor cries, vividly, vibrantly all through the medal ceremony. They fall in hot lines down his cheeks, off his lashes, the little crystals catching the light like they had in a hotel room in Barcelona all those years ago.

They may have called him the living legend, but Victor knows its this performance that will set the tune for skating for years to come. Yuuri will be the inspiration, the way his body moved, the emotion stark and sharp as he spun and jumped and stepped. By the end of it, the audience was in tears – the jumbotron in the middle constantly cutting to people wiping their eyes and taking out tissues from their pockets.

He’s never seen anything like it, and he’s… not sure how to process it, the raw _emotion_. He knows the story Yuuri is telling, and it’s bitter. Painful, with a pointed burst of hope at the very end, his hand reaching out to Victor just as it had in _Yuri on Ice_.

After, in the hotel room, Victor feels rung out. He can’t stop shaking, his hands can’t stop shaking, and when Yuuri reaches out to clasp his hands Victor sees Yuuri is shaking as well.

The dam breaks, then, and suddenly Victor is crying, deep, gulping sobs that rip through him. He sinks to his knees, gasping for breath like he’s dying, unable to stop the guttural wails – and Yuuri is there, arms wrapped around him tight enough to bruise.

He’s crying, too, the wetness warm against Victor’s cheek where Yuuri presses his face into the crook of Victor’s neck.

“I did it,” Yuuri says, as though in disbelief, “I did it, Victor, five Grand Prix gold medals-”

“I knew you could,” Victor breathes, “I always knew, you’re wonderful, my Yuuri, my darling Yuuri.”

Yuuri pulls back, eyes shimmering. “I didn’t think,” his voice cracks, and he wipes at his eyes, sniffling, “After you were gone, I kept thinking to myself that you’d never see me win all of the medals you knew I could win. It broke my heart, knowing how much you believed in me, but you’d never see me at my best-”

Victor’s heart lurches in pain. “Oh, Yuuri...”

“But you did,” Yuuri sobs, clenching Victor’s hands in his own so hard it hurts, “You did get to see it, see me win again, and I’m so, so happy. I spent three years thinking you were gone forever, that I’d never see you again. I feel like I might explode from how happy I feel.”

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers, voice caught in his throat. There’s something there, a fluttering in his chest, and he realizes that he’s happy too. He’s felt joy, contentment, pleasure in the past few months, but this is the first time he’s felt this much pure exhilaration. And of course, of course it was Yuuri who helped him feel this way.

He laughs, wetly, laughs and cries, and Yuuri is laughing as well, and Victor kisses Yuuri so fiercely his heart smolders with the heat of it.

“I won, Victor,” Yuuri laughs, and cries, and laughs again, “I won. _We_ won.”

“We won,” Victor murmurs, pressing his forehead to Yuuri’s. In the moment, then, he lets himself believe it with his whole heart.

* * *

 

Gold, gold, and more gold – Victor’s world shines with it. It’s the color of electric candle light at the restaurant they go to for Victor’s birthday, the glimmer of his cuff links, the flecks in Yuuri’s eyes as they stare at each other, warm and soft and content.

Sunrise paints the world gold, warm rivers of light on the rare sunny days, spreading across the snow – Victor and Yuuri run through them, rays splashing on their clothing and backpacks. Sunset does, too, as they come home from the rink each night.

Gold is the medal that Yuuri wins at Nationals, at Four Continents, at Worlds. He breaks yet another world record at Worlds, and the way his eyes light up, the way his jaw drops in shock as he sees his score is something Victor wishes he could imprint on his memory forever.

Things are still spotty, sometimes, and for a moment Victor feels this memory slipping away into nothingness – then, Yuuri looks at him, beautiful tears falling from his brown eyes, and they kiss with the whole world watching.

For a strange second, Victor wishes Honda was alive to see this.

They kiss again and again, hardly stopping as they tumble back into their hotel room later that day. It’s a wonderful feeling, such pride and joy and wonder running through Victor’s veins. He feels like he’s been lit up from the inside, like this feeling will never fade, that he’ll be happy forever.

Victor tumbles on top of Yuuri, and they kiss, and kiss, and kiss as golden sunset streams in through the curtains.

I’ll never forget this, Victor thinks, Never, never, never.

* * *

 

The season ends, eventually, as all things do.

Yuuri is silent on his retirement – whether he wants to keep going or stop now, a five time Grand Prix Final gold medalist, a world record holder, a legend in every right.

When Victor looks at magazine headlines now, he sees that they’re _legendary_. That they’re unmatched, unbeatable, a coach-student team that won’t be seen for another hundred years. It’s better, so much better, than the headlines all about his kidnapping and return, and he makes sure Yuuri knows how thankful he is for that with slow kisses in the morning, deep kisses at night.

Sometimes, Victor remembers what it was like at that hospital all those months ago – more than a year ago, now. Remembers the pain in his throat, the horror of looking at his body, the animalistic _need_ to see Yuuri again, thinking he might die if he had to wait to see Yuuri another second.

Thinking of how close he came to death, and savoring his life with Yuuri with an intensity that scares him, sometimes.

Some days, it’s like he never left. Others, the fear clings to him in the cold light of morning, Yuuri’s breathing slow and soft beside him.

There’s something he wants to do. It’s exhilarating, nerve wracking, but he knows there’s something good waiting for him if he can get through it.

When Yuuri comes out of the bathroom later that night, Victor wipes a stray splotch of toothpaste from the corner of his lip.

“Yuuri,” he murmurs, “Do you think we could plan a trip to Hatsetsu? For this spring?”

Yuuri blinks for a second, but then his eyes widen and his face splits into a sunny grin, and he kisses Victor.

“Of course, Vitya,” he smiles, “if that’s what you want. They’ll all be so pleased to see you.”

Victor runs his thumb over Yuuri’s lip, softly, and he settles back into the sheets, reveling in how unafraid he is for what he’ll see in the morning, remembering those days he was worried he’d wake and Yuuri would be just a dream.

I was right, Victor thinks smugly as sleep covers him like a blanket, I told him he couldn't keep me away from you, Yuuri.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this doujin really evoked some strong emotions in people, but I know writing this is makin' me feel a little better, so. 
> 
> I also really like the interpretation from omgkatsudonplease (I think?) where Yuuri and Victor were discussing it like it was a movie Victor had starred in, and he was totally fine. 
> 
> Pls don't start arguments in the comments


End file.
